Mulhern  Donation 


Ti 


CJ 


THE 


POETS    AND    POETRY 


OF 


IRELAND 


WITH  HISTORICAL  AND   CRITICAL  ESSAYS 
AND  NOTES 


BY  ALFRED   M.  WILLIAMS 


BOSTON 
JAMES   R.  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY 

1881 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  ALFRED  M.  WILLIAMS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS.: 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


TO 
SIR    SAMUEL    FERGUSON, 

WHO   HAS   DONE   SO   MUCH    BY   GENIUS  TO   ADORN, 
AND   BY   LEARNING  TO    ILLUSTRATE, 

&Jjc  Poetrg  of  Erelanfc, 

THIS    VOLUME    IS    DEDICATED. 


799776 


PREFACE. 


THE  purpose  of  this  volume  is  to  present  in  con- 
nected and  illustrative  form  the  national  Irish 
poetry,  from  the  earliest  period  to  the  present  time,  with 
such  historical  and  biographical  information  and  criti- 
cism as  would  thoroughly  illustrate  without  overloading 
it.  The  aim  has  been  to  make  it  as  completely  national 
as  possible  without  absolutely  excluding  everything  not 
distinctively  Irish  in  theme  or  dialect,  and  on  the  other 
hand,  while  not  burdening  it  with  verse  of  a  merely 
antiquarian  or  historic  interest,  to  have  it  contain  what 
is  fairly  representative  of  Irish  poetry.  With  the  pur- 
pose of  confining  it  within  national  limits,  the  poetry 
of  Swift,  Goldsmith,  and  others  who  wrote  exclusively 
for  English  readers  and  were  Irish  only  by  nativity  so  far 
as  their  literary  product  is  concerned,  has  been  entirely 
omitted.  Less  space  is  also  given  to  Moore  than  he 
would  be  entitled  to  from  his  position  as  the  representa- 
tive poet  of  Ireland,  both  from  the  reason  that  his  works 
are  so  generally  accessible  and  familiar,  and  because  so 
considerable  a  portion  of  his  poetry  with  the  exception 


vi  PREFACE. 

of  the  "  Irish  Melodies "  was  devoted  to  other  than 
national  themes.  Several  poets  of  Irish  nativity  and 
theme,  whose  merits  would  entitle  them  to  a  place  in  a 
collection  of  Irish  poetry,  have  "been  omitted  because 
their  poems  were  originally  published  in  this  country 
and  are  accessible  to  American  readers. 

There  is  no  collection  in  any  form  that  gives  a  con- 
nected series  of  Irish  poetry  from  the  earliest  period, 
and  in  all  forms  of  expression,  from  the  bardic  ode  to 
the  drawing-room  song  and  street  ballad,  and  it  is  hoped 
that  this  volume  will  supply  the  lack  in  some  adequate 
degree,  and  present  to  American  readers  a  collection  of 
poetry  attractive  in  itself,  and  as  original,  strongly 
marked,  and  indigenous  as  Irish  music  is  already  known 
to  be.  Some  specimens  of  the  bardic  poetry  given  are 
only  accessible  in  the  scarce  and  costly  publications  of 
antiquarian  societies,  and  several  of  the  street  ballads, 
marked  by  original  force,  have  never  before  been  printed 
in  any  form  except  the  penny  slip  or  broadside.  Some 
of  the  biographical  information  has  also  never  been 
published  before.  The  work  has  been  a  labor  of  love 
for  some  years,  since  I  first  visited  Ireland  as  a  corre- 
spondent for  the  New  York  Tribune  to  report  the  Fenian 
disturbances,  and  has  been  the  recreation  of  the  scanty 
leisure  of  a  busy  life  of  journalism.  If  it  accomplishes 
anything  in  the  way  of  making  the  American  public 
acquainted  with  the  treasures  of  Irish  poetry,  which 
have  long  been  my  own  admiration,  my  purpose  will  be 
fully  accomplished. 


PREFACE.  vii 

Some  apparent  discrepancies  will  appear  in  the  spell- 
ing of  Celtic  words  on  account  of  the  difference  between 
the  correct  and  scholastic,  and  the  common  or  Anglicized 
form.  I  have  considered  it  merely  finical  to  attempt  to 
change  to  the  less  known  form  such  familiar  words  as 
colleen,  cruiskeen,  etc.,  in  places  where  they  are  parts  of 
the  dialect,  although  I  have  usually  followed  the  scho- 
lastic authority  elsewhere. 

PROVIDENCE,  R.  I.,  April  23,  1881. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  BA.RDS 1 

Torna's  Lament  for  Core  and 

Niall Torna  Egeas 23 

The  Giant  Walker Sir  Samuel  Ferguson      ...  25 

The  Washer  of  the  Ford  ...  "                "              ...  29 
The  Legend  of  Fergus  Leide- 

son Anonymous 31 

The  Spear  of  Keltar    ....                         33 

Cuchullin's  Chariot      ....            "           35 

Deirdre's  Lament  for  the  Sons 

of  Usnach "           37 

The  Downfall  of  the  Gael     .     .  Fearflatha  O'Gnive    ....  39 
Address  to  the  Clans  of  Wicklow  Bard  of  the  0' Byrnes     ...  42 
Lament  for  the  Princes  of  Ty- 
rone and  Tyrconnell     .     .     .  Owen  Roe  Mac  an  Bhaird  .     .  45 

Dark  Rosaleen Bard  of  the  O'Donnell    ...  52 

Keen    on  Maurice    Fitzgarald, 

Knight  of  Kerry Peirse  Ferriter 55 

A  Farewell  to  Patrick  Sarsfield    Anonymous 57 

Boatman's  Hymn "           60 

The  Coolun  I "           61 

The  Coolun  II "           62 

O  Loved  Maid  of  Braka  ...            "           64 

Molly  Astore Cormac  O'Con 65 

Cean  Dubh  Dheelish   ....    Anonymous 66 

The  Maid  of  Ballyhaunis      .     .            "           .- 67 

The  Fair-haired  Girl     ....            "           68 

Pastheen  Finn "           69 

Cormac  Oge "           71 

Cushla  Ma  Chree     .     .     .     .     •            "           71 

The  Girl  I  love "          72 


x  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

The  Lap  full  of  Nuts    ....    Anonymous 73 

Hopeless  Love "         74 

Irish  Lullaby "          74 

Nurse's  Song "         76 

Grace  Nugent Carolan 77 

Pulse  of  My  Heart Fragment 78 

Ode  to  the  Minstrel O'Connellan    Anonymous 79 

The  Cup  of  O'Hara     ....     Carolan 80 

Mild  Mabel  Kelly " 81 

Gentle  Brideen " 82 

THE  HEDGE  POETS 83 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Eire  O !  .  .  Donoyh  MacNamara  ...  93 

The  Fair  Hills  of  Ireland  .  .  Anonymous 95 

A  Lament  for  the  Fenians  .  .  John  O'Tuomy 96 

The  Cruel,  Base-born  Tyrant  .  John  Clarach  MacDonnell .  .  98 

Here  's  a  Bumper  to  Philip  .  .  Anonymous 99 

A  Vision Conor  O'Riordan  ....  101 

Cashel  of  Munster Rev.  William  English  ...  103 

The  Gentle  Maiden  ....  Patrick  O'Connor  ....  104 

Shaun  O'Dee Peirse  Fitzgerald  .  .  .  .  107 

Maire  Ni  Milleoin Anonymous  ......  108 

Nora  of  the  Amber  Hair  .  .  .  "  110 

Death's  Doleful  Visit  ....  "  ........  Ill 

The  Rover "  113 

Pulse  of  my  Heart "  115 

Hail,  O  Fair  Maiden !  .  .  .  .  "  116 

Fairy  Mary  Barry "  117 

Lament  over  the  Ruins  of  the 

Abbey  of  Timoleague  .  .  .  John  O'CuUane 119 

A  Lament  for  Kilcash  .  .  .  Anonymous 122 

From  the  cold  Sod  that 's  o'er 

You "  124 

Drimmin  Dhu "  126 

The  Attributes  of  Erin  .  .  .  Dearmid  0' Sullivan  .  .  .  126 

Youghall  Harbor Anonymous 129 

The  Fisherman's  Keen  for  his 

Sons "  130 

The  Fairy  Nurse  .....  "  132 

The  Outlaw  of  Loch  Lene  .  .  "  133 

The  Twisting  of  the  Rope  .  .  "  134 


CONTENTS.  xi 

.  PAGE 

THE  STREET  BALLADS 135 

The  Shan  Van  Vogh  ....  Anonymous 144 

The  Wearing  of  the  Green  .  .  "  146 

The  Bantry  Girl's  Lament  for 

Johnny "  147 

Willy  Reilly "  148 

The  Glass  of  Whiskey  ...  "  151 

On  the  Colleen  Bawn  ....  "  . 152 

My  Connor "  154 

The  Dear  and  Darling  Boy  .  .  "  155 

Drimmin  Dubh  Dheelish  .  .  "  157 

Tubber-Na-Shie "  159 

By  Memory  inspired  ....  "  162 

The  Irishman's  Farewell  to  his 

Country "  164 

Patrick  Sheehan Charles  J.  Kickham ....  165 

My  Ulick "  "  ....  168 

The  Irish  Grandmother  .  .  .  Anonymous 169 

Bellewstown  Races  ....  "  172 

The  Night  before  Larry  was 

Stretched William  Maker 174 

Luke  Caffrey's  Kilmainham 

Minit Anonymous 177 

Trust  to  Luck "  179 

Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  .  .  "  180 

CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS       183 

Bumpers,  Squire  Jones    .    .     .    Arthur  Dawson 193 

The  Cruiskeen  Lawn  ....     Anonymous 196 

Garryowen "         197 

The  Rakes  of  Mallow  ....            "         199 

One  Bottle  More "          200 

The  Monks  of  the  Screw      .     .  John  Philpot  Outran     .     .     .  201 

Barry  of  Macroom A noni/mous 202 

The  Nightcap Thomas  Hamblin  Porter    .     .  204 

St.  Patrick Dr.  William  Maginn    ...  204 

The  Gathering  of  the  Mahonys  "          "          '<         ...  207 
Cork  is  the  Eden  for  you,  Love, 

and  me "          "         "         ...  209 

The  Groves  of  Blarney    .     .     .     R.  A.  Milliken 211 

The  Boys  of  Kilkenny      .     .     .     Anonymous 213 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Purty  Molly  Brallaghan  .     .    .     Anonymous 214 

Rory  O'More Samuel  Lover 215 

The  Low-backed  Car  ....         "         " 217 

Darby,  the  Blast Charles  Lever 219 

Larry  Me  Hale     .     .     .     .    .    .          "      """" .    .    .    .".    .  220 

Kitty  of  Coleraine Anonymous 221 

Poh,  Dermot !    Go  along  with 

your  Goster     .     .     .     .     <     .     Thomas  Moore 222 

Vic  Machree T.  Hughes 224 

Song  of  Spring Thomas  Irwin 226 

A  Lament  for  Donnybrook  .     .         "           "          228 

THOMAS  MOORE 230 

O,  Breathe  not  his  Name 233 

When  he  who  adores  Thee  .     ^ 234 

The   Harp  that  once  through 

Tara's  Halls 234 

The  Meeting  of  the  Waters 235 

She  is  far  from  the  Land 236 

'T  is  the  Last  Rose  of  Summer .237 

The  Minstrel  Boy .238 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country .  238 

CHARLES  WOLFE  .  ^ 240 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 243 

O,  Say  not  that  my  Heart  is 

Cold 244 

If  I  had  thought  Thou  couldst 

have  Died 245 

JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN 247 

Gougane  Barra 249 

The  Night  was  Still 251 

Dirge  of  O'Sullivan  Beare 251 

JOHN  BANIM 255 

Soggarth  Aroon 259 

Ailleen   .     .    . 261 

The  Fetch 262 

He  said  he  was  not  our  Brother    .                                             .  264 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

PACK 

GERALD  GRIFFIN 265 

Gille  Ma  Chree 267 

Sleep  that  like  the  couched  Dove 269 

The  Sister  of  Charity 270 

FRANCES  BROWNE 273 

The  Last  Friends 274 

Losses 275 

The  Four  Travellers 277 

FRANCIS  MAHONY 279 

The  Bells  of  Shandon 281 

THOMAS  DAVIS  AND  THE  POETS  OF  "  THE  NATION  "...  284 

The  Sack  of  Baltimore  ....  Thomas  Davis  ....  289 

Fontenoy  ..." "  "  ....  292 

The  Lost  Path "  "  ....  295 

Maire  Bhan  a  Stor "  "  ....  296 

The  Celtic  Cross Thomas  D'Arcy  Me  Gee  .  .  297 

The  Irish  Rapparees  ....  Charles  Gavan  Duffy  .  .  .  299 

Wishes  and  Wishes  ....  Francis  Davis 301 

Nanny "  " 302 

Clondallagh John  Frazer 303 

Caoch,  the  Piper John  Keegan 306 

The  Exodus Lady  W.  R.  Wikle  ...  309 

,  The  Memory  of  Ninety -Eight  .  John  K.  Ingram 311 

Dear  Land Anonymous 313 

Cate  of  Araglen Denny  Lane 315 

Ourselves  Alone Anonymous 317 

Paddies  Evermore "  319 

The  Holy  Well "  321 

Tipperary "  323 

JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN 325 

The  Nameless  One 328 

A  Vision  of  Connaught  in  the  Thirteenth  Century     ....  332 

Soul  and  Country 330 

The  One  Mystery 334 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM , 336 

The  Eviction 338 

The  Girl's  Lamentation   .                                                         .  344 


xiy  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 347 

The  Leprecaun,  or  Fairy  Shoemaker 348 

AUBREY  DE  VERB 351 

The  Music  of  the  Future 353 

Sonnet 356 

The  Little  Black  Rose 357 

Ode  to  the  Daffodil .    .  357 

"Good-hearted" 360 

Epitaph 301 

Song 361 

Nocturn  Hymn 362 

THOMAS  IRWIN 364 

The  Potato-Digger's  Song 364 

The  Emigrant's  Voyage 367 

The  Sea-Serpent 369 

CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM 372 

Rory  of  the  Hills 373 

The  Irish  Peasant  Girl 376 

What 's  that  to  any  Man  whether  or  no  ? .  377 

SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON 379 

The  Healing  of  Conall  Carnach 381 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor 390 

The  Fairy  Thorn 394 

The  Fairy  Well  of  Lagnanay 396 

A  Landscape  .  " 399 

The  Widow's  Cloak .401 

DENTS  FLORENCE  MCCARTHY ^  404 

Waiting  for  the  May 405 

Ireland,  1847 407 

The  Paradise  of  Birds 408 

The  Irish  Wolf-hound 410 

ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES 411 

The  Black '46 412 

The  Blue,  Blue  Smoke 414 

The  Foggy  Dew 417 


THE 


POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE    BARDS. 

IN  no  country  of  which  we  have  'any  authentic  account  did 
the  bards  exist  in  such  numbers,  or  produce  so  much 
and  so  varied  verse,  as  in  Ireland.  They  make  their  appear- 
ance in  the  first  dawn  of  legendary  history,  and  the  succes- 
sion was  continued  down  to  the  death,  in  1737,  of  Turlogh 
O'Carolan,  who  was  called  the  last  of  the  Irish  bards,  al- 
though their  lineal  descendants  continued  in  the  hedge  poets, 
who  were  in  existence  during  the  early  part  of  the  present 
century,  and  are  found  in  the  street  ballad-singers  of  to-day. 
Tradition  credits  Amergin,  the  brother  of  Heber  and  Here- 
mon,  the  leaders  of  the  Milesian  invasion,  about  500  B.  c., 
with  being  the  first  bard,  and  as  uniting  in  himself  the  offices 
of  chief  priest  and  chief  poet.  However  obscure  are  the 
annals  of  the  semi-historic  period,  it  is  certain  that  the  caste 
of  bards  flourished  in  Ireland  from  a  very  early  time,  and 
was  thoroughly  interwoven  with  its  historic  and  social  life. 
If  we  may  credit  tradition,  Ollamh  Fodla,  the'twentieth  in  the 
line  of  Milesian  kings,  established  the  national  conventions 
at  Tara,  which  are  so  marked  a  feature  of  ancient  bardic  his- 
tory, and  at  a  very  early  period  the  institution  had  its  classes, 
its  privileges,  its  distinctions,  and  its  peculiar  dress. 

The  bards  were  divided  into  Fileas,  who  were  more  ex- 
pressly what  the  name   denotes.     They  were  in  constant 

1 


•%•';      THE   POETS  AND  POETEY  QF  IRELAND. 

attendance  upon  the  chief,  celebrated  his  valor,  and  sang 
his  personal  praises.  Surrounded  by  the  Orsidigh,  or  instru- 
mental musicians,  who  fulfilled  the  function  of  a  modern 
military  band,  they  watched  his  progress  in  battle  for  the 
purpose  of  describing  his  feats  in  arms,  composed  birthday 
odes  and  epit'halamia,  aroused  the  spirits  of  clansmen  wjth 
war-songs,  and  lamented  the  dead  in  the  caoines,  or  keens, 
which  are  still  heard  in  the  wilder  and  more  primitive  regions 
of  Ireland.  The  second  class  of  bards  were  the  Brehons,  who 
versified  and  recited  the  laws.  The  third  class  were  the 
Senachies,  who  preserved  the  genealogies  in  a  poetic  form, 
kept  the  record  of  the  annals  of  the  time,  and  composed 
stories  and  related  legends.  The  lineal  descendants  of  the 
Senachies  have  existed  within  our  own  time,  in  the  persons  of 
wandering  story-tellers,  who  were  welcomed  by  the  peasant's 
turf  fire  for  the  skill  and  humor  with  which  they  repeated 
well-worn  fairy  or  historic  legends.*  The  greater  portion  of 
the  more  ancient  Irish  literature  now  in  existence  was  prob-. 
ably  the  composition  of  Senachies,  the  songs  of  the  Fileas 
being  more  of  an  extemporaneous  nature,  and  less  likely  to 
be  committed  to  writing,  and  the  institutes  of  the  Brehons 
exciting  less  interest  for  their  preservation  after  they  ceased 
to  be  the  laws  of  the  land.,  There  are  more  or  less  credible 
traditions  concerning  the  collegiate  institutes,  the  course  of 
study,  and  the  pay  and  privileges  of  the  bards,  and  their 
dress  has  been  described  with  more  particularity  than  cer- 
tainty, f  They,  however,  wore  woven  colors  of  one  shade 
less  than  the  king,  and  which,  whether  four  or  six,  were  a 
distinguishing  uniform,  like  the  Highland  tartan. 

From  the  natural  fondness  o'f  the   Irish  race  for  poetry, 
and  the  honors  and  privileges  of  the  caste,  the  profession 

*  Carleton,  Tales  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry, 
t  The  accounts  given  in  Walker's  "  Memoirs  of  the  Irish  Bards  "  have 
been  discredited  by  later  antiquarians. 


THE  BARDS.  3 

muliplied  until  it  became  an  intolerable  nuisance.  At  about 
the  time  of  the  conversion  of  Ireland  to  the  Christian  faith, 
in  the  fifth  century,  they  were  reported  to  number  a  third 
of  the  male  population,  and  in  A.  D.  590  a  synod  was  held 
at  Drumkeat  by  Aed,  king  of  Ulster,  which  greatly  reduced 
their  numbers,  and  would,  it  is  said,  have  resulted  in  their 
total  banishment,  except  for  the  intercession  of  St.  Colum- 
banus.*  From  this  they  several  times  increased,  to  the  point 
of  restriction  and  repression,  until  they  began  to  participate 
in  the  misfortunes  of  the  Celtic  inhabitants  from  the  attacks 
of  foreign  enemies,  which  began  with  the  invasion  of  the 
Danes,  and  continued  until  the  final  subjugation  under  Wil- 
liam III.  From  a  powerful  caste,  with  laws  and  privileges 
of  its  own,  they  became  personal  attendants  of  individual 
chiefs,  fighting  in  their  battles  and  sharing  their  misfortunes; 
and  from  that,  in  the  last  acknowledged  representative  of 
the  line,  a  wandering  minstrel,  sharing  the  hospitality,  not 
only  of  the  reduced  chiefs  of  the  ancient  blood,  but  of  bois- 
terous squireens  of  low  degree,  and  singing  their  praises 
with  but  a  spark  of  the  ancient  spirit.  The  records  of  bardic 
history  in  that  length  of  time  would  be  almost  interminable, 
and  the  greater  portion  would  lack  reliable  authenticity. 
Like  the  poets  of  all  time,  their  history  is  best  found  in  their 
verse. 

The  oldest  Irish  poem  of  importance  is  the  Tain-bo  Ouail- 
gne,  or  "  The  Cattle  Spoil  of  Quelney,"  whose  date  of  original 
composition  is  estimated  at  about  the  latter  part  of  the  fifth 
century.  This  exists  by  transcript,  and  with  doubtless  many 
emendations  and  changes  in  the  language,  in  "  The  Book  of 
the  Dun  Cow,"  so  called  from  the  vellum  on  which  a  part 
of  it  is  written  being  made  from  the  hide  of  a  famous  dim 
cow,  and  which  was  written  in  the  early  part  of  the  twelfth 
century.  But  the  tone  and  structure  of  the  language,  and 

*  Keating,  History  of  Ireland. 


4    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

the  manners  and  customs  mentioned  in  it,  indicate  its  origi- 
nal date  with  considerable  exactness.  The  great  mass  of 
the  earlier  Irish  poems  are  extant  only  in  the  transcripts 
of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  when  the  bardic 
institution  was  in  its  best  estate,  previous  to  its  reduction  in 
the  interminable  wars  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  invaders ;  and 
a  large  number  of  books  were  compiled  and  written  for  the 
chiefs,  who  valued  them  at  very  high  prices.  These  have 
been  preserved,  and  are  now  in  a  great  measure  translated 
by  the  exertions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy  and  the  Irish 
Archaeological  Society.  They  are  similar  to  the  Book  of 
the  Dun  Cow,  and  are  named  "  The  Yellow  Book  of  Slane," 
"  The  Book  of  Glengiven,"  "  The  Book  of  Ballymote,"  and 
others,  written  or  transcribed  within  about  the  same  margin 
of  date.  The  language  at  this  period  was  quite  different 
from  that  of  the  date  of  the  action  of  most  of  the  poems, 
which  professed  to  be  at  about  the  end  of  the  third  century 
and  the  beginning  of  the  fourth,  which  was  the  Fenian  or 
Ossianic  era,  although  there  is  a  considerable  confusion  of 
dates  even  among  them,  many  of  the  poems  making  St. 
Patrick  one  of  the  interlocutors,  whose  era  was  more  than 
a  century  later.  It  is,  however,  the  opinion  of  later  scholars, 
that  the  earlier  Irish  language  had  a  greater  simplicity  and 
force  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  redundances  and  exaggera- 
tions which  mark  the  later  style  of  the  existing  compilations. 
Either  the  legendary  poems  of  this  era  were  first  committed 
to  writing  at  the  period  of  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries 
from  oral  tradition,  or  the  earlier  books  have  been  lost; 
and  in  any  case  great  changes  and  interpolations  were  made 
by  the  later  writers. 

The  heroes  of  these  poems  are  in  a  great  measure  those 
of  McPherson's  Ossian.  Chief  among  them  were  Fion  Mc- 
Cumhail,  or  McCuil  (the  original  of  McPherson's  Fingal), 
Goll,  Oisin  (son  of  Fin),  Coiian  the  bald,  Osgar  (son  of 


THE  BAUDS.  5 

Ossin),  Cuchullin,  and  others,  who  will  at  once  be  recognized 
as  bearing  such  resemblances  in  name  as  to  indicate  merely 
the  changes  that  would  result  from  oral  transfer  to  another 
country  and  the  same  language  in  a  slightly  different  dialect. 
Edmund  Burke  records  that  on  the  appearance  of  McPher- 
son's  Ossian  there  was  a  universal  outcry  among  the  Irish 
that  the  poems  were  their  own,  and  that  they  had  been 
familiar  with  them  for  centuries.  On  closer  inquiry,  how- 
ever, he  says,  they  were  unable  to  come  any  nearer  producing 
the  exact  originals  of  the  poems  claimed  as  by  Ossian  than 
were  to  be  found  in  the  Highlands  by  the  zealous  antiqua- 
rians, who  were  set  to  search  by  national  pride  or  the  jealous 
doubt  that  immediately  followed  the  success  of  McPhersou's 
volume. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  McPherson's  Ossian  was  founded 
on  the  legendary  fragments  that  remained  among  the 
Gaelic  inhabitants  of  Scotland,  and  which  were  in  a  great 
measure  common  property  between  them  and  the  better 
Irish,  who,  if  they  did  not  settle  the  Highlands,  according  to 
the  Irish  tradition,  were  of  one  family  with  its  people.  At 
any  rate,  the  names  of  the  heroes  and  many  of  the  incidents 
of  the  poems  are  very  similar.  We  are  unable  to  compare 
the  originals  of  the  Gaelic  poems  with  the  Irish,  for  they 
either  never  existed  in  manuscript  or  have  been  lost ;  but  the 
imitations  or  fabrications  of  McPherson  are  free  from  the 
sometimes  childish  exaggerations  of  the  Irish  in  respect  to 
the  size  and  exploits  of  the  heroes,  the  presence  of  the 
sorcerers  and  malignant  demons,  who  assumed  the  shape  of 
human  beings  or  animals  in  order  to  delude,  and  other 
supernatural  figures.  On  the  other  hand,  they  are  supplied 
with  an  extensive  machinery  of  ghosts  and  phantoms,  voices 
of  the  wind  and  sun,  and  other  images  common  to  the  semi- 
classical  poetry  of  McPherson's  time,  and  which  he  would 
be  very  likely  to  add  in  a  fabrication  in  imitation  of  ancient 


6     THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

poetry.  The  language  and  sentiment  of  McPherson's  Ossian 
is  also  of  the  stilted  and  artificial  sort,  common  to  the  verse 
of  the  time,  and  quite  different  from  the  frank  simplicity  of 
early  natural  poetry.  The  truth  about  McPherson's  Ossian, 
without  a  doubt,  is,  that  he  found  a  mass  of  legend  without 
form  or  definiteness,  and  that  with  a  real  original  genius  he 
transfused  it  into  an  appropriate  and  striking  form  of  words, 
having  thoroughly  caught  the  original  spirit  of  lamentation 
and  sorrow,  which  is  the  emanation  of  the  dark  seas,  the  heavy 
mists,  the  bare  and  lonely  hillsides  of  the  northern  coasts  of 
Ireland  and  Scotland,  and  which  infects  every  author  of  genius 
brought  within  its  spell,  from  the  days  of  Ossian  to  those  of 
,  the  author  of  the  "  Princess  of  Thule."  Whatever  of  turgid 
language  and  stilted  sentiment  there  may  be  in  McPherson's 
Ossian,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  its  form  is  powerful  and 
striking,  and  the  whole  impression,  vague  and  cloudy  as  it 
is,  is  of  a  grand  and  heroic  figure,  and  of  a  poetry  that  is  of 
the  great  originals  of  the  world.  Hew  much  of  this  is  due 
to  the  original  genius  of  McPherson  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
He  is  entitled  to  the  credit  of  having  shaped  a  vague  tradi- 
tion into  a  living  form  of  verse,  and  his  chief  error,  except 
in  the  faults  of  taste,  was  in  attempting  to  engraft  modern 
ideas  upon  an  ancient  stock.  His  errors  in  history  and  mis- 
taken gropings  after  the  meanings  of  symbols  are  of  less 
account,  and  as  few  as  to  be  expected  from  one  who  was  too 
impatient  to  be  a  sound  antiquarian.  His  fame  has  suffered 
most  from  the  fatal  error  in  the  beginning,  which  perpetuated 
itself  to  the  ruin  of  all  consistency  or  credit.  He  unques- 
tionably at  first  endeavored  to  pass  off  his  creations  for 
direct  translations  from  the  originals ;  but  the  immediate 
vigor  of  search  and  demand  for  ocular  evidence  prevented 
him  from  maintaining  this  deception,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  enormous  popularity  of  the  poems,  and  the  admiration 
which  they  excited,  roused  in  him  a  desire  to  claim  them  as 


THE  BAEDS.  7 

his  own.  Instead  of  acknowledging  the  original  deception, 
he  imagined  that  his  honor  was  concerned  in  repelling  the 
charges  of  forgery,  which  were  made  with  the  very  unscru- 
pulous violence  of  literary  controversy  in  those  days,  and 
took  refuge  in  a  haughty  silence,  which  was  intended  both 
as  a  defence  and  as  a  claim  for  the  authorship.  This  course 
was  so  utterly  inconsistent  that  he  lost  credit  on  both  sides, 
and  the  reputation  of  the  poems  has  undoubtedly  suffered 
greatly  from  the  impression  that  the  author  was  a  compound 
of  the  charlatan  and  impostor.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  ;  for 
the  faults  and  obscurities  of  Ossian  are  sufficient  to  form  a 
barrier  to  the  appreciation  which  a  more  thorough  study 
would  give,  and  which  the  evil  repute  of  imposture  prevents. 
It  is  not  in  this  grudging  spirit  that  the  more  exaggerated 
and  extravagant  poetry  of  the  East  is  approached,  and  a 
much  better  appreciation  of  Ossian  would  come  from  a 
kindlier  spirit  of  regard.  Whether  the  originals  of  the 
Ossianic  legends  were  native  to  Ireland  or  Scotland  is  hardly 
worth  dispute,  but  the  probabilities  are  considerably  in  favor 
of  the  former,  so  far  as  existing  evidence  remains  to  show. 

To  a  confusion  of  dates  in  the  present  manuscript  versions 
of  the  Irish  Ossianic  legends  is  also  added  some  incongruity 
of  manners  and  religion.  As  has  been  said,  St.  Patrick  is 
made  an  interlocutor  with  Ossian,  although  nearly  two  hun- 
dred years  separate  their  recorded  eras,  and  there  is 
sometimes  an  almost  equally  incongruous  intermingling  of 
Christianity  and  Paganism.  The  pagan  spirit  is  tolerated 
to  a  remarkable  degree,  and  Ossian  is  allowed  to  defend  his 
faith  in  a  manner  not  at  all  to  be  expected  from  the  zeal  of 
Christianity  in  other  countries  at  that  period,  and  which 
shows  a  great  degree  of  tolerance  in  the  founders  of  the 
Christian  faith  in  Ireland.  A  very  striking  instance  of  this 
occurs  in  "The  Lay  of  the  Chase  of  Slieve  Guillen."  The 
poem  begins  with  a  general  panegyric  by  Ossian  on  the 


8    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Ancient  heroes,  his  contemporaries,  whom  he  compares,  to 
their  advantage,,  with  the  psalm-singing  associates  of  St. 
Patrick,  with  whom  he  is  now  surrounded.  St.  Patrick 
bids  him  remember  that  Fin  and  his  heroes  were  destroyed 
by  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty,  and  are  now  suffering  eternal 
punishment  in  hell ;  to  which  Ossian  responds  with  a  burst 
of  indignation,  and  a  comparison  as  bold  as  any  of  Shel- 
ley's:— 

"  Small  glory  to  thy  potent  king, 
His  chains  and  fires  on  our  host  to  bring. 
Oh,  how  unlike  our  generous  chief, 
Who,  if  thy  king  felt  wrong  or  grief, 
Would  soon  in  arms  with  valor  strong 
Avenge  his  grief,  revenge  his  wrong. 
Whom  did  the  Fenian  king  e'er  see 

In  thraldom,  pain  or  fear, 
But  his  ready  gold  would  set  him  free, 
Or  the  might  of  his  potent  spear  ? " 

Trans,  of  Rev.  W.  H.  DRUMMOND. 

Some  of  the  personages  in  these  poems  had  a  real  place  and 
name  in  history,  as  did  Arthur  and  some  of  the  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table.  Others,  in  like  manner,  were  pure  in- 
ventions, and  the  greater  part  of  the  dramatis  personce  and 
events  are  so  confused  a  mixture  of  truth  and  fable  that  little 
can  be  extracted  of  reliable  fact.  There  is  a  probability,  in 
the  stately  words  of  Gibbon,  that  "  Fingal  lived  and  Ossian 
sung,"  but  there  is  little  more  of  ascertainable  fact  in  the 
exploits  of  the  one  or  the  verse  of  the  other. 

The  most  interesting  and  valuable  poem  of  this  class, 
although  the  Ossianic  personages  do  not  figure  in  it  directly, 
is  "  The  Battle  of  Moyra,"  with  its  introductory  pre-tale  of 
"The  Banquet  of  Dunangay,"  which,  despite  a  profuse 
fluency,  glows  with  a  sort  of  barbaric  splendor  and  nobleness 
of  sentiment.  It  relates  to  the  last  struggle  of  the  pagan 


THE  BAUDS.  9 

and  bardic  party,  and  its  defeat  in  the  battle  of  Moyrath, 
which  took  place  A.  D.  639,  between  Congal,  a  sub-king  of 
Ulster,  and  his  English  and  Scotch  allies,  and  the  native 
forces,  owning  allegiance  to  Domnal,  the  venerable  monarch 
of  the  northern  portion  of  Ireland.  Although  defeated, 
Congal  is  the  real  hero  of  the  poem,  and  his  noble  qualities 
excite  the  sympathies  of  the  reader  as  those  of  Hector  against 
Achilles,  and  Turnus  against  ^Eneas.  Although  probably 
written  by  a  Christian  bard,  it  is  remarkable  for  its  impar- 
tiality and  tolerant  spirit ;  and,  in  fact,  the  whole  literature 
of  the  time  goes  to  show  that  the  conversion  of  Ireland  to 
Christianity  was  accomplished  without  a  crusade,,  and  that 
little  bitterness  of  feeling  existed  between  the  adherents  of 
the  new  and  the  old  religion.  Congal,  Domnal,  Sweeney  (who 
is  depicted  with  real  Homeric  vigor,  as  the  victim  of  the 
worst  misfortune  that  could  befall  an  Irish  hero,  a  super- 
natural visitation  of  cowardice),  and  others  of  the  principal 
characters,  are  historic  persons,  while  others  are  probably  the 
inventions  of  the  bards.  "  The  Battle  of  Moyra"  has  been 
the  foundation  of  an  epic  poem  by  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson, 
who  has  reconstructed  it  in  the  most  effectual  way  in  which 
the  Celtic  original  can  be  reproduced  for  English  readers, 
owing  to  the  remarkable  differences  in  the  way  of  a  literal 
version,  and  that  is  by  preserving  the  local  color  and  forms 
of  the  original  as  far  as  possible,  but  discarding  the  allitera- 
tive redundances  that  flow  easily  and  naturally  in  the  Celtic 
language,  but  which  would  be  utterly  confusing  and  ridicu- 
lously tautological  in  English.  This  is  what  McPherson 
should  have  acknowledged  that  he  had  done  with  the  Os- 
sianic  traditions.  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's  poem  is  thoroughly 
saturated  with  the  local  color  and  natural  sentiment,  and  is 
written  with  a  sonorous  vigor  of  verse  and  happy  boldness 
of  epithet  worthy  of  Chapman.  It  gives  a  better  idea  of 
the  ancient  Irish  epic  than  any  other  translation  or  recon- 


10    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

struction,   and  so  far  as  the  original  Celtic  romance  can  be 
reproduced  for  the  English  reader,  it  is  done  in  "  Congal." 

It  is  considered  by  Irish  scholars  that  the  language  of  the 
earlier  versions  of  "  The  Battle  of  Moyra  "  was  more  forcible 
and  direct  than  that  of  the  existing  copy,  and  that  the  exag- 
gerations and  redundancies  were  the  result  of  later  corrup- 
tions. The  style  of  the  Ossianic  epics  presents  great  difficulties 
to  the  translator,  particularly  in  the  abundance  of  epithets. 
The  following  is  a  descriptive  allusion  to  the  cataract  of 
Bally  shannon  :  —  "  The  clear- watered,  snowy-foamed,  ever- 
roaring,  party-colored,  bellowing,  in-salmon-abounding,  beau- 
tiful old  torrent,  ....  the  lofty,  great,  clear-landed, 
contentious,  precipitate,  loud-roaring,  headstrong,  rapid, 
salmon-full,  in-sea-monster-abounding,  varying,  in-large-fish- 
abounding,  rapid-flooded-furious-streamed,  whirling,  in-seal- 
abounding,  royal  and  prosperous  cataract." 

The  difficulty  of  rendering  this  into  English  can  be 
imagined,  in  spite  of  the  example  of  Southey's  experiment 
in  description  of  the  falls  of  Lodore  ;  but  in  the  original 
the  tautologies  are  not  apparent  in  the  rapid  and  various 
expressiveness  of  the  Celtic  language,  and  those  who  are 
familiar  with  the  scene  recognize  the  force  and  appositeness 
of  the  phrases,  recalling  the  open,  grassy  headlands,  the 
tawny  volume  of  the  river,  the  seal-haunted  sea  abyss  at  the 
foot,  and  the  frequent  flash  of  the  salmon  darting  upward 
through  the  prone  rolling  masses.1*  This  profusion  of  epi- 
thets is  quite  Oriental,  in  its  character,  recalling  the  distinc- 
tive features  of  Persian  and  Arabic  poetry.  The  Irish  epics 
are  distinguished  from  the  Scandinavian  sagas,  not  only  by 
their  Oriental  exaggeration  and  redundancy  in  contrast  with 
the  simple  directness  and  vigor  of  the  Northern  poets,  but 
by  their  gentler  spirit,  the  absence  of  the  grim  humor,  the 
ferocity,  and  the  delight  in  dwelling  upon  scenes  of  slaughter 

*  Quarterly  Eeview,  April,  1868. 


THE  BARDS.  11 

and  pain  characteristic  of  the  harder  and  harsher  race  of 
sea-robbers.  The  characteristics  are  the  peculiar  property 
of  the  Celtic  race,  and  represent  the  redundant  imagery,  the 
florid  splendor  of  rhetoric,  and  fluency  of  Irish  eloquence,  in 
all  ages. 

The  second  era  of  the  bardic  poetry  of  Ireland  is  that 
which  includes  the  fragments  of  verse  preserved  during  the 
interminable  and  deadly  struggles  of  the  native  race  against 
the  English  invaders  from  the  landing  of  Strongbow  to' the 
battle  of  the  Boyne.  During  that  period  there  was  no  time 
when  there  was  not  strife  between  the  native  race  and  the 
foreign  settlers,  whether  war  was  formally  declared  or  not  j 
and  the  horrors  of  the  more  atrocious  battles  were  only 
equalled  by  the  worst  examples  of  barbaric  vindictiveness 
and  sweeping  destruction  in  the  East.  The  picture  which 
Spenser  draws  of  the  condition  of  Munster  during  the  wars 
of  the  Earl  of  Desmond  with  Elizabeth,  when  the  famished 
wretches  crawled  out  of  their  dens  and  caves  to  feed  on  the 
bodies  of  starved  cattle,  and  died  by  the  thousand,  until 
the  land  was  left  a  wilderness,  peopled  by  wolves,  and  with- 
out a  human  inhabitant  throughout  the  fairest  region  of 
Ireland,  was  only  wider  in  its  scope  and  more  accomplished 
in  its  desolation  than  some  of  the  other  wars  of  Elizabeth 
and  James  I. ;  short  triumphs  hardly  won  by  rude  valor 
over  discipline,  constant  forays  offsetting  frequent  defeats, 
and  a  gradual  encroachment  of  the  English  settlement  upon 
the  native  population,  make  up  the  wretched  annals  of  the 
nation. 

Under  these  circumstances  there  was  little  opportunity  or 
inclination  for  the  composition  of  long  epic  poems,  and  the 
inspiration  of  the  bards  was  turned  to  more  direct  appeals 
for  war,  rejoicings  for  victory,  and  lamentations  for  misfor- 
tune and  defeat.  The  poetry  took  a  more  lyric  form,  and 
became  an  ode  instead  of  an  epic.  The  fragments  of  the 


12    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

species  of  composition  are  much  smaller  in  bulk  than  the 
voluminous  earlier  narratives,  and  are  also  much  more  con- 
cise and  vigorous  in  style.  Some  of  them  breathe  the  very 
essence  of  hatred,  exultation,  or  despair  with  a  language  that 
is  Oriental  only  in  its  force  and  picturesqueness  of  epithet, 
and  without  the  slightest  trace  of  tautology  or  redundancy. 
,  Spenser,  who  considered  the  Irish  as  irreclaimable  savages, 
fit  only  for  extermination,  and  who  by  the  inversion  of  fear 
and  hatred  regarded  the  courage,  the  patriotism,  and  the  elo- 
quence of  the  bards  in  animating  and  keeping  up  the  strife 
as  vices  instead  of  virtues,  had  yet  literary  impartiality 
enough  to  commend  their  poetical  genius  in  the  often-quoted 
passage  concerning  the  flowers  of  wit  and  invention  to  be 
found  in  the  poetry  of  contemporary  Irish  bards. 

Two  of  the  most  remarkable  bards  of  this  era  were  Fear- 
flatha  O'Gnive,  hereditary  bard  of  the  O'Neills  of  Claneboy, 
whose  ode  on  the  downfall  of  the  Earl  is  very  striking  in  its 
reiterated  lamentation,  and  O'Hussey,  the  bard  of  the  Mac- 
Guires,  of  Fermanagh.  The  following  is  a  literal  version  of 
O'Hussey's  ode  to  his  chief,  Hugh  MacGuire  :  — 

"  Cold  weather  is  this  night  for  Hugh, 
A  grief  is  the  rigor  of  its  showery  drops  ; 
Alas  !  insufferable  is  the  venom  of  this 
Night's  cold. 

"  This  night,  it  grieves  my  heart, 
Is  filled  with  the  thunder-flashing  heavy  storm, 
Succeeded  by  an  icy  congealment, 
Less  ruthless  than  the  hate  which  pursues  him. 

11  From  the  sullen  breasts  of  the  clouds 
The  floodgates  of  heaven  are  let  loose  ; 
The  vapors  exhaled  from  the  salt  sea 
The  firmament  pours  down  in  torrents. 


THE  BAEDS.  13 

"  Though  he  were  a  wild  creature  of  the  forest, 
Though  a  salmon  in  an  inlet  of  the  ocean,; 
Or  one  of  the  winged  fowls  of  the  air, 
He  could  not  bear  the  rigor  of  this  weather. 

"  Mournful  am  I  for  Hugh  MacGuire 
This  night  in  a  strange  land, 

Under  the  embers  of  thunderbolts,  amid  the  showers  flaming, 
And  the  keen  anger  of  the  whistling  clouds. 

"  Sore  misery  to  us  and  torturing  to  our  bosoms 
To  think  that  the  fine  front  and  sides  of  his  goodly  frame 
Should  be  ground  by  the  rough,  sullen,  scowling  night 
In  cold  steelly  accoutrements,  — 

"  His  kind-dealing  hand  that  punished  cruelty, 
By  frost  made  dumb, 
Under  some  spiked  and  icicle-hung  tree. 

"  Hugh  marched,  to  my  grief,  with  his  host  to  battle, 
And  to-night  his  tresses  softly  curling  are  hung  with  ice  ; 
But  warmth  to  the  hero  are  the  remembered  shouts  of  war, 
And  the  many  lime-white  mansions  he  hath  laid  in  ashes." 

These  verses  display  remarkable  vigor,  and  the  repetition  of 
the  various  images  of  storm  and  cold  impress  them  with  the 
utmost  vividness,  while  the  closing  burst  of  passion  is  the 
very  essence  of  unquenchable  hatred.  The  following  also 
shows  a  remarkable  power  of  scenic  description. 

"  The  perilous  ways  of  the  border  of  Leinster,  T- 
Borders  of  slow  calling  sounds, 
Gloomy  borders  of  bright  mountains  severe, 
The  intricate  deserts  of  Archchaidhe. 

"  Heroes  polishing  their  glowing  weapons, 
Sounding  trumpets  loudly  martial, 
A  frost-foggy  wind  with  whistling  darts  flying,  — 
These  are  the  music  in  which  you  delight  at  early  morn." 


H        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Among  the  other  bards  of  this  period  were  Malmurry 
Bhaird,  or  Ward,  bard  of  Tyrconnell,  who  composed  a  fine 
ode  on  Donegal  Castle,  the  seat  of  the  popular  hero,  Hugh 
Roe  O'Donnell,  and  Owen  Roe  MacBhaird,  bard  of  the  O'Don- 
nells,  whose  laments  for  the  chiefs  of  the  houses  of  Tyrone 
and  Tyrconnell,  who  died  in  Rome  in  the  early  part  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  is  full  of  touching  pathos. 

-The  amatory  and  strictly  lyric  poetry  of  this  long  period 
is  even  smaller  in  amount,  and  in  more  fragmentary  condi- 
tion, than  the  odes.  Among  the  earliest  specimens  that 
remain  is  the  celebrated  "  Eileen  Aroou,"  by  which  name, 
however,  several  more  modern  poems  of  similar  style  are 
known.  The  legend  is  that  it  was  composed  by  Carrol  O'Daly, 
a  brother  of  Donogh  More  O'Daly,  Lord  Abbot  of  Boyle 
and  also  a  poet  called  the  Ovid  of  Ireland,  about  the  middle 
of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  poet  was  in  love  with  Ellen 
Kavanagh,  the  daughter  of  a  Leinster  chief,  but  his  suit  was 
not  regarded  favorably  by  the  family,  and  during  his  absence 
for  a  considerable  time  the  lady  was  persuaded  to  favor  a 
rival  suitor.  He  returned  on  the  day  before  the  wedding, 
and,  disguised  as  a  harper,  presented  himself  to  the  house, 
when,  being  called  upon  by  Ellen  herself  to  play,  he  sang 
the  song  which  revealed  himself  to  her,  and  won  her  to  fly 
with  him.  The  exquisite  sweetness  of  the  air,  first  known 
to  the  English  world  by  its  Scotch  transcription  into  "  Robin 
Adair,"  has  been  remarked  by  all  lovers  of  music,  and  Han- 
del is  reported  to  have  said  that  he  would  rather  have  been 
its  composer  than  of  the  finest  of  his  own  oratorios.  The  love 
songs,  for  the  most  part,  appear  to  have  been  composed  by 
persons  a  grade  lower  in  station  than  the  professional  bards, 
and  to  coine  nearer  the  definition  of  peasant  poetry.  They 
are  marked  by  great  abruptness,  and  an  artless  confusion 
such  as  would  be  natural  to  one  more  intent  on  making 
known  his  feelings  than  in  constructing  elaborate  verse,  and 


THE  BAEDS.  15 

sometimes  are  not  much  more  than  a  jumbled  rhapsody. 
The  sentiment  is  always  fine  and  generous,  and  the  touches 
of  local  allusion  and  national  characteristics  of  scenery,  with 
the  peculiar  epithets  of  beauty,  that  become  more  effective 
from  frequent  repetition,  give  the  poetry  a  striking  originality 
and  effect.  As  in  all  primitive  poetry,  there  is  great  same- 
ness of  epithet  and  continued  repetition  of  images,  as  gold 
is  always  "red"  and  water  "wan"  in  the  earlier  Scotch 
ballads.  A  favorite  time  is  the  dawning  of  day,  with  its 
songs  of  birds  and  dew  upon  the  grass ;  the  attractions  of 
the  maid  are  always  her  "  cuileen"  or  abundant  and  long, 
flowing  hair,  her  swan  neck  and  cheeks  like  apple-blossoms, 
or  berries  on  the  bough ;  and  the  poet's  love  is  more  than 
wealth  of  cattle  or  ties  of  kindred.  He  is  often  in  exile, 
almost  always  in  poverty,  and  his  appeal  is  frequently  the 
hopeless  longing  which  misfortune  or  fate  prevents  any  hope 
of  being  realized.  The  deep  and  abiding  melancholy  and 
the  undertone  of  pathos  in  the  wildest  rhapsody  of  passion, 
or  even  in  the  tumult  of  joy,  are  as  marked  in  the  poetry  as 
in  the  music  of  Ireland,  and  is  the  natural  result,  if  not 
of  the  temperament  of  the  race,  and  of  the  clouds  and  mists 
and  softly  melancholy  scenery  that  make  its  surroundings, 
of  the  misfortunes  that  have  pursued  it  with  almost  unre- 
lenting severity. 

Some  specimens  of  these  earlier  lyrics  and  songs,  even  in 
the  bald  nakedness  of  a  literal  translation,  will  give  a  better 
idea  of  their  characteristics  than  when  rendered  into  the 
English  idiom.  The  following  is  an  "  Eileen  Aroon,"  com- 
posed by  a  Munster  poet  of  uncertain  date. 

"  0,  with  love  for  you  there  is  not  a  sight  in  my  head, 

Eileen  Aroon. 
To  he  talking  of  you  is  delight  to  me, 

Eileen  Aroon. 
My  pride  very  just  you  are, 


16    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

My  pleasure  of  this  world  you  are, 
My  joy  and  happiness  you  are, 

Eileen  Aroon. 

My  own  girl  indeed  you  are, 
My  dove  of  all  in  the  wood  you  are, 
And  for  my  heart  there  is  no  cure  without  you, 

Eileen  Aroon. 

"  I  would  go  beyond  the  brine  for  you, 

Eileen  Aroon ; 
And  forever  —  forever  I  would  not  forsake  you, 

Eileen  Aroon. 

With  tales  I  would  pleasure  you, 
I  woidd  taste  your  mouth  closely, 
And  I  would  recline  gently  by  your  waist, 

Eileen  Aroon. 

I  would  give  you  an  airing  along  the  river-side, 
Under  the  green  branches  of  trees 
With  music  of  birds  in  melody  above  us, 

Eileen  Aroon. 


"  0  little  star,  beautiful,  modest, 
Before  I  would  have  you  torn  from  me 
I  would  sooner  die, 

Eileen  Aroon.'* 

The  intensity  and  directness  of  this  is  remarkable,  and  it  is 
almost  Sapphic  in  its  rhapsodic  abruptness.  Still  more 
abrupt  and  confused  is  the  expression  of  the  lover  of  Mary 
Chuisle,  or  Molly  Astore  :  — 

"  0  Mary  Chuisle  !    O  blossom  of  fairness, 
Branch  of  generousness,  westward  from  the  Nair, 
Whose  voice  is  sweeter  than  the  cuckoo  on  the  branch  ! 
You  have  left  me  in  the  anguish  of  death. 
The  candle  is  not  clear  to  me,  the  table,  nor  the  company, 
From  the  drunkenness  you  cause  me,  O  star  of  women  ! 


THE  BARDS.  17 

Majestic,  graceful  maid,  who  has  increased  my  woe,  — 
Alas  that  I  am  without  your  cloak  till  dawn ! 

"  I  have  walked  to  Ardagh  and  Kinsale, 
To  Drogheda  and  back  again, 
To  Carlow  and  Downpatrick,  — 
I  have  not  looked  upon  the  like  of  Mary. 
High  coaches  (I  have  seen)  with  white  horses, 
And  English  cavaliers  fighting  for  their  ladies. 
If  you  go  home  from  me,  Mary,  safe  home  to  you, 
Your  shadow  would  make  light  without  the  sun." 

The  Jacobite  poetry,  or  at  least  that  which  belongs  strictly 
to  this  era,  is  greatly  inferior  to  that  of  Scotland,  but  it 
must  be  remembered  that  it  antedates  the  latter  by  nearly 
a  century,  and,  furthermore,  that  the  Stuarts  were  very  far 
from  exciting  the  feeling  of  personal  loyalty  and  devotion  in, 
Ireland  which  they  did  in  Scotland.  They  were  tyrants  and 
representatives  of  an  alien  race  to  the  Celtic  population, 
and  it  was  only  by  compulsion  that  they  were  identified  with 
the  cause  of"  national  independence.  The  personal  qualities 
of  James  II.  were  not  of  the  sort  to  create  the  romantic  in- 
terest which  surrounded  the  gallant  figure  of  the  young 
Pretender,  and  his  incapacity  and  cowardice  caused  a  feeling 
of  contempt  among  the  native  Irish,  which  was  marked  by 
an  unsavory  nickname.  When  the  later  Stuart  rebellions 
occurred  in  Scotland,  the  native  population  of  Ireland  was 
so  crushed  that  they  exhibited  not  the  slightest  overt  token 
of  sympathy,*  and  their  past  experience  was  not  of  the  sort 
to  encourage  them  to  take  up  arms  in  defence  of  the  Stuarts. 
There  is,  however,  a  lament  for  Mary  d'Este,  the  widow  of 
James  II.,  by  John  O'Neachtan,  a  bard  of  Meath,  of  con- 
siderable pathos,  and  a  dialogue  between  James  and  Erin, 
by  an  unknown  bard,  of  a  generous  and  lofty  spirit.  Later, 

*  Lord  Macaulay,  History  of  England. 
2 


18    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

as  will  be  seen  in  the  "  Hedge  Poets,"  the  Stuarts  were  fre- 
quently alluded  to,  but  in  an  allegorical  vein,  and  without  a 
fervor  of  personal  affection. 

Turlogh  O'Carolan,  who  is  considered  the  last  individual 
entitled  to  the  honors  of  being  called  an  Irish  bard,  was 
born  in  Newtown,  near  Nobber,  in  the  county  of  Meath,  in 
the  year  1670.  He  was  of  an  ancient  family,  his  father, 
John  O'Carolan,  having  been  driven  from  the  English  Pale 
by  some  confiscation  in  the  previous  reign,  and,  although  not 
rich,  was  possessed  of  some  land.  Young  Turlogh  led  the 
life  usual  to  youths  of  his  station,  being  educated  after  the 
death  of  his  father  with  the  children  of  Mrs.  McDermott 
Roe  of  Alderford,  in  the  county  of  Roscommon,  a  lady  of 
noble  family  and  large  estate.  In  his  eighteenth  year  he 
became  blind  from  an  attack  of  the  small-pox,  and,  by  the 
custom  that  prevails  to  this  day  among  the  peasantry,  was 
educated  to  music.  He  received  instruction  on  the  harp 
from  the  most  celebrated  musicians  of  the  region,  and  after 
four  years  of  education  was  supplied  by  Mrs.  McDermott 
Roe  with  a  horse  and  attendant,  and  commenced  the  pilgrim- 
age which  ended  only  with  his  life. 

At  this  time  the  bards  had  fallen  from  their  high  estate 
by  the  decadence  of  the  noble  families  that  had  maintained 
them.  The  vast  establishments  like  those  of  the  O'Neills 
and  MacCarthys  had  passed  away,  and  no  chief  held  semi- 
regal  sway  in  Edenduffcarrick  or  Portumna.  The  chiefs 
could  no  longer  maintain  their  bards  as  parts  of  their  house- 
hold, and  the  possibility  of  lofty  themes  in  celebrating  the 
warlike  power  of  a  prince,  who  waged  a  not  unequal  war 
against  the  Saxon  invader,  had  also  vanished.  The  bard 
was  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  dividing  his  favors  among  a 
number  of  patrons,  and  of  sharing  the  hospitality  of  the 
humbler  squireens,  as  of  the  ancient  gentry.  This  O'Carolan 
did,  and  his  wanderings  for  forty  years  included  the  whole 


THE  BARDS.  19 

west  and  a  portion  of  the  centre  of  Ireland,  his  favorite 
places  of  sojourning  being  almost  all  traceable  in  the  titles 
of  his  poems.  At  one  time,  near  the  close  of  his  life,  he 
had  in  his  audience  a  little  ungainly  boy,  who  doubtless 
listened  to  the  great  harper  with  all  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  and 
who  grew  up  to  be  Oliver  Goldsmith,  and  to  record  his  won- 
der and  admiration  at  the  sight  of  the  last  of  the  Irish  bards. 
The  subject  of  his  verse  was  the  personal  praise  of  his  en- 
tertainers, and  it  was  naturally  lowered  from  the  high 
themes  of  the  early  bards  by  the  circumstances  of  their 
lives.  The  spirit  of  the  Celtic  aristocracy  was  inevitably  de- 
graded in  some  degree  by  their  unfortunate  condition.  Vul- 
gar drunkenness  too  often  succeeded  the  high-spirited  carouse 
of  former  years,  personal  brawls  to  the  gallant  forays,  and 
coarse  profusion  and  recklessness  to  high-toned  magnificence 
and  generosity.  The  pictures  of  manners  in  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  novels,  Sir  Jonah  Barrington's  Sketches,  and  the 
literature  of  half  a  century  later,  give  an  idea  of  what  the 
condition  of  society  must  have  been  in  Carolan's  time.  His 
duty  was  to  contribute  to  the  entertainment,  and  although 
he  preserved  so  much  of  his  dignity  as  to  be  beyond  all  pe- 
cuniary reward,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  sink  some- 
times into  unworthy  adulation,  and  confess,  as  in  one  of  his 
verses,  — 

"  True  to  my  host  and  to  his  cheer  I  prove, 
And  as  I  find  them  must  I  .praise  them  still." 

It  is  true  that  there  is  a  difference  in  the  quality  of  his 
praise,  and  that  he  rises  into  a  spirit  of  loftier  compliment 
when  he  has  a  worthy  subject,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  verses 
to  the  cup  of  O'Hara.  He  had  also  a  sense  of  dignity  to 
resent  unworthy  treatment,  and  to  brand  as  a  niggard  any 
one  who  did  not  receive  him  with  the  consideration  to  which 
he  was  entitled.  But  the  greater  part  of  his  verse  was  un- 


20    THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IRELAND. 

fortunately  employed  in  unworthy  personal  praise,  although 
it  might  be  said  that  there  was  nothing  equalling  the  hu- 
mility of  adulation  displayed  by  his  English  contemporaries 
in  dedications  to  their  patrons. 

He  was,  however,  a  poet  beyond  this,  and  sufficient  remains 
of  his  verse  exist  to  show  a  genuine  inspiration,  a  sweet 
fancy  and  tenderness.  It  is  to  be  remembered  that  Carolan 
was  first  educated  as  a  musician  and  composer,  and  it  was 
only  upon  the  challenge  of  a  patron  that  he  composed  his 
first  piece  of  poetry,  an  account  of  a  battle  between  fairies. 
Throughout  his  life  his  talent  as  a  musician  was  considered 
of  at  least  as  much  consequence  as  his  poetical  ability.  But 
there  is  a  spirit  of  graceful  compliment  and  sincere  feeling 
in  his  verses  to  Bridget  Cruise,  his  first  love,  to  his  wife, 
Miss  Grace  Nugent,  and  others,  which  recalls  Burns,  whom 
he  also  resembled  in  the  spirit  in  which  he  celebrated  good 
fellowship  and  whiskey.  The  circumstances  of  his  life  were 
so  unfortunate  and  degrading,  that  it  is  a  wonder  that  even 
so  much  remains  of  genuine  sincerity  and  depth  of  feeling. 

At  the  age  of  sixty-seven  his  wanderings,  were  over. 
Broken  in  health,  he  made  his  way  to  Alderford,  the  house 
of  his  earliest  patron,  Mrs.  McDermott  Roe,  then  over  eighty 
years  of  age,  to  receive  his  last  welcome.  When  confined  to 
bed  he  composed  his  last  melody,  "  Farewell  to  Music,"  in  a 
strain  of  remarkable  tenderness  and  pathos.  His  wake  was 
the  grandest  of  the  time.  For  four  days  open  house  was 
kept  at  Alderford.  All  the  houses  in  the  village  were 
crowded,  and  tents  and  huts  were  erected  on  the  green.  Ex- 
haustless  barrels  of  whiskey  were  placed  in  the  hall,  where 
the  corpse  lay  in  state.  The  most  accomplished  keeners  of 
the  country  around  raised  their  lamentations  at  the  head 
of  the  coffin,  and  Mrs.  McDermott  Roe  herself  thought  it 
no  derogation  to  join  the  hired  mourners  in  lamentation  over 
"her  poor  gentleman,  the  head  of  all  Irish  music."  All  the 


THE  BARDS.  21 

bards  in  Ireland  came  to  celebrate  the  death  of  their  master 
in  dirges  j  and  the  nobility  and  clergy,  including  sixty  min- 
isters of  various  denominations,  attended  the  funeral.  On 
the  fifth  day  the  corpse  was  taken  to  the  vault  of  the  Mc- 
Dermott  Roe  family  in  Kilronan  church,  with  a  following 
that  extended  for  miles.  A  portrait  of  Carolan  was  taken 
in  his  later  years  by  the  Dutch  painter,  Vanderhagen.  It 
represents  him  with  harp  in  hand,  and  his  sightless  eyes 
raised.  The  face  is  beardless,  full  and  smooth,  with  an  air 
of  sweetness  and  serenity.  The  flowing  locks  and  partially 
bald  brow  give  it  somewhat  a  resemblance  to  the  portraits 
of  Shakespeare. 

It  remains  to  say  a  word  concerning  the  translators  of 
Irish  poetry.  The  first  person  to  translate  Irish  into  metri- 
cal verse  was  Charles  \\rilson,  who,  like  so  many  others  since, 
betook  himself  to  London  in  search  of  fame  and  fortune, 
where  he  committed  suicide  on  the  failure  of  his  literary 
enterprises.  He  received  the  friendship  and  assistance  of 
Burke,  and  published  a  few  fragments  of  the  Ossianic  chron- 
icles in  stilted  elegiac  verse,  which  gave  no  idea  of  their 
distinctive  originality.  Miss  Charlotte  Brooke,  the  daughter 
of  Henry  Brooke,  author  of  "  The  Fool  of  Quality,"  was  the 
first  to  call  attention  to  original  Irish  poetry ;  and  her  vol- 
ume, "Reliques  of  Irish  Poetry,"  published  in  1788,  con- 
tained some  very  interesting  specimens.  Unfortunately  she 
was  influenced  by  the  taste  of  the  time,  and  translated  their 
vigorous  and  natural  idiom  into  elegant  phraseology,  and 
gave  them  the  form  of  classical  odes,  with  strophe  and  anti- 
strophe,  and  such  artificialities.  She  had,  however,  a  fine 
spirit  of  appreciation,  and  is  entitled  to  great  credit  for  her 
knowledge  and  enthusiasm.  A  very  important  addition  to 
Irish  literature  was  made  by  two  volumes  of  "  Irish  Min- 
strelsy," collected  and  published  by  James  Hardiman,  in 
1831,  with  metrical  translations  by  Thomas  Furlong,  Henry 


22    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Grattan  Curran,  and  John  D' Alton.  Thomas  Furlong  was  a 
young  man  with  a  great  taste  for  poetry ;  but  unfortunately 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  the  necessary  homeliness  or 
faithfulness  necessary  to  give  a  clear  idea  of  his  originals,  and 
paraphrased  them  into  high-sounding  verse,  with  neither 
strength  nor  color.  The  same  is  to  be  said  of  his  collabora- 
tors, Mr.  Curran,  the  son  of  the  celebrated  orator,  and  Mr. 
D'Alton,  the  author  of  a  forgotten  epic  poem.  Jeremiah  Jo- 
seph Callanan,  a  young  man  of  Cork,  who  published  in  1825 
a  volume  of  poems,  which  contained  some  translations  from 
the  Irish,  displayed  much  spirit  and  sincerity  in  his  versions, 
and  they  are  really  the  first  that  gave  any  idea  of  the  origi- 
nals. Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  is  the  most  successful  of  the 
translators  from  the  Irish,  preserving  all  the  spirit  and 
fluency  of  the  original,  and  thoroughly  faithful  in  idiom  and 
local  color.  The  unfortunate  James  Clarence  Mangan  trans- 
lated much  from  the  Irish,  with  which,  however,  he  was 
unacquainted,  his  versions  being  from  literal  translations 
furnished  him  by  others  ;  and,  as  has  been  said  of  his  trans- 
lations from  the  German,  they  are  some  of  the  best  and  the 
worst,  ranging  from  the  simplest  and  baldest  version  to  a 
fine  paraphrase  in  intricate  and  melodious  ode.  A  volume 
of  "  Reliques  of  Irish  Jacobite  Poetry "  has  been  published, 
with  translations  by  Edward  Walsh,  of  considerable  spirit 
and  faithfulness.  Dr.  George  Sigerson  has  given  some  ad- 
mirable and  faithful  versions  from  the  hedge  poets.  Trans- 
lations from  the  Irish  in  various  quantities  have  been 
published  by  Dr.  John  Anster,  of  Dublin,  Rev.  W.  H. 
Drummond,  and  others,  and  the  publication  of  the  originals 
with  literal  translations  by  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  the 
Irish  Archaeological  Society,  and  other  similar  associations, 
has  added  much  to  the  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  the 
native  Celtic  verse. 


THE  BARDS.  23 

TORNA'S  LAMENT  FOR  CORC  AND  NIALL. 

TORNA  EGEAS.     CIRCA  423.     TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

This  lament  was  composed  by  Torna  Egeas,  who  is  called  the  last  of 
the  Pagan  bards,  in  the  early  part  of  the  fifth  century.  The  princes 
whom  he  lamented  were  Core,  king  of  Munster,  and  Niall  of  the  Nine 
Hostages,  two  of  the  most  distinguished  heroes  of  early  Irish  history, 
of  whom  Torna  had  been  the  instructor,  and  the  successful  mediator  in 
their  rivalry.  The  poem  is  notable  for  its  directness  and  simplicity, 
and  the  absence  of  all  metaphor.  The  translation  is  nearly  literal. 

MY  foster  children  were  not  slack ; 
Core  or  Neal  ne'er  turned  nis  back  : 
Neal,  of  Tara's  palace  hoar, 
Worthy  seed  of  Owen  More  ; 
Core  of  Cashel's  pleasant  rock, 
Con-cead-caha's  honored  stock. 
Joint  exploits  made  Erin  theirs,  — 
Joint  exploits  of  high  compeers  ; 
Fierce  they  were,  and  stormy  strong : 
Neal  amid  the  reeling  throng 
Stood  terrific  ;  nor  was  Core 
Hindmost  in  the  heavy  work. 

Neal  Mac  Eochy  Vivahain 
Ravaged  Albin,  hill  and  plain  ; 
While  he  fought  from  Tara  far, 
Core  disdained  unequal  war. 
Never  saw  I  man  like  Neal, 
Making  foreign  foemen  reel ; 
Never  saw  I  man  like  Core, 
Swinking  at  the  savage  work ; 
Never  saw  I  better  twain, 
Search  all  Erin  round  again,  — 


24    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Twain  so  stout  in  warlike  deeds, 
Twain  so  mild  in  peaceful  weeds. 

These  the  foster  children  twain 
Of  Torna,  I  who  sing  the  strain; 
These  they  are,  the  pious  ones, 
My  sons,  my  darling  foster  sons  ! 
Who  duly  every  day  would  come 
To  glad  the  old  man's  lonely  home. 
Ah  !  happy  days  I  've  spent  between 
Old  Tara's  hall  and  Cashel  green ! 
From  Tara  down  to  Cashel  ford, 
From  Cashel  back  to  Tara's  lord. 
When  with  Neal,  his  regent,  I 
Dealt  with  princes  royally, 
If  with  Core  perchance  I  were, 
I  was  his  prime  counsellor. 

Therefore  Neal  I  ever  set 

On  my  right  hand,  —  thus  to  get 

Judgments  grave,  and  weighty  words, 

For  the  right-hand  loyal  lords  \ 

But  ever  on  my  left-hand  side 

Gentle  Core,  who  knew  not  pride, 

That  none  other  so  might  part 

His  dear  body  from  my  heart. 

Gone  is  generous  Core  O'Yeon,  —  woe  is  me ! 

Gone  is  valiant  Neal  O'Con,  —  woe  is  me ! 

Gone  the  root  of  Tara's  stock,  —  woe  is  me  ! 

Gone  the  head  of  Cashel  rock,  —  woe  is  me  ! 

Broken  is  my  witless  brain,  — 

Neal,  the  mighty  king,  is  slain  ! 

Broken  is  my  bruised  heart's  core,  — 

Core,  the  High  More,  is  no  more ! 


THE  BAEDS.  25 

Mourns  Lea  Con,  in  tribute's  chain, 
Lost  Mac  Eochy  Vivahain, 
And  her  lost  Mac  Lewj  true 
Mourns  Lea  Mogha,  ruined  too ! 


THE  GIANT  WALKER. 

This  and  the  succeeding  poem,  "  The  Washer  of  the  Ford,"  are  not 
literal  versions,  although  they  are  the  substance  of  original  legends, 
and  are  given  as  specimens  of  the  supernatural  figures  in  Celtic  ro- 
mance. They  are  from  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's  epic  poem  of  Congal. 
The  Giant  Walker,  or  the  Bodach  an  chota  lachtna,  the  churl  with  the 
gray  cloak,  is  a  familiar  figure  in  both  Highland  and  Irish  legend, 
and  has  also  been  made  the  subject  of  a  poem  by  James  Clarence  Man- 
gan,  under  the  title  of  "The  Churl  with  the  Gray  Coat."  "The 
Washer  of  the  Ford  "  is  paraphrased  with  considerable  literalness  from 
a  passage  in  McCraith's  "Wars  of  Turlogh,"  the  apparition  appearing 
to  the  Clan  Brian  Roe. 

AROUND  the  Mound  of  Sighs 

They  filled  the  woody-sided  vale ;  but  no  sweet  sleep  their 
eyes 

Refreshed  that  night,  for  all  the  night,  around  their  echo- 
ing camp, 

Was  heard  continuous  from  the  hills  a  sound  as  of  the 
tramp 

Of  giant  footsteps ;  but  so  thick  the  white  mist  lay  around 

None  saw  the  Walker  save  the  king.  He,  starting  at  the 
sound, 

Called  to  his  foot  his  fierce  red  hound ;  athwart  his  shoulders 
cast 

A  shaggy  mantle,  grasped  his  spear,  and  through  the  moon- 
light passed 

Alone  up  dark  Ben-Boli's  heights,  toward  which,  above  the 
woods, 


26    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

With  sound  as  when  at  close  of  eve  the  noise  of  falling  floods 
Is  borne  to  shepherd's  ear  remote  on  stilly  upland  lawn, 
The  steps  along  the  mountain  side  with  hollow  fall  came  on. 
Fast  beat  the  hero's  heart,  and  close  down-crouching  by  his 

knee 
Trembled  the  hound,  while  through  the  haze,  huge  as  through 

mists  at  sea 
The   week-long  sleepless  mariner  descries   some    mountain 

cape, 

Wreck  infamous,  rise  on  his  lee,  appeared  a  monstrous  Shape, 
Striding  impatient,  like  a  man  much  grieved,  who  walks 

alone, 
Considering  of  a  cruel  wrong.     Down   from   his  shoulders 

thrown, 
A  mantle,   skirted  stiff  with  soil  splashed  from  the  miry 

ground, 

At  every  stride  against  his  calves  struck  with  as  loud  re- 
bound 

As  makes  the  mainsail  of  a  ship  brought  up  along  the  blast, 
When  with  the  coil  of  all  its  ropes  it  beats  the  sounding 

mast. 
So  striding  vast,  the  giant  passed ;  the  king  held  fast  his 

breath, 
Motionless,  save  his  throbbing  heart,  and  still  and  chill  as 

death 

Stood  listening  while,  a  second  time,  the  giant  took  the  round 
Of  all  the  camp ;  but  when  at  length,  for  the  third  time, 

the  sound 
Came  up,  and  through  the  parting  haze  a  third  time  huge 

and  dim 

Rose  out  the  Shape,  the  valiant  hound  sprang  forth  and  chal- 
lenged him. 

And  forth,  disdaining  that  a  dog  should  put  him  so  to  shame, 
Sprang  Congal,  and  essayed  to  speak. 


THE  BARDS.  27 

"Dread  shadow,  stand.    Proclaim 
What  wouldst  thou,  that  thou  thus  all  night  around  my 

camp  shouldst  keep 

Thy  troublous  vigil,  banishing  the  wholesome  gift  of  sleep 
From*  all  our  eyes,  who,  though  inured  to  dreadful  sounds 

and  sights 

By  land  and  sea,  have  never  yet  in  all  our  perilous  nights 
Lain  in  the  ward  of  such  a  guard." 

The  Shape  made  answer  none  ; 

But  with  stern  wafture  of  its  hand,  went  angrier  striding  on, 
Shaking  the  earth  with  heavier  steps.  Then  Congal  on  his 

track 
Sprang  fearless. 

"  Answer  me,  thou  Churl,"  he  cried.     "  I  bid  thee  back !  " 
But  while  he  spoke,  the  giant's  cloak  around  his  shoulders 

grew 
Like  to  a  black  bulged  thunder-cloud ;  and  sudden  out  there 

flew 

From  all  its  angry  swelling  folds,  with  uproar  unconfined, 
Direct  against  the  king's  pursuit,  a  mighty  blast  of  wind. 
Loud  flapped  the  mantle  tempest-lined,  while  fluttering  down 

the  gale, 
As  leaves  in  autumn,  man  and  hound  were  swept  into  the 

vale, 

And,  heard  o'er  all  the  huge  uproar,  through  startled  Dalaray 
The  giant  went,  with  stamp  and  clash,  departing  south  away. 
The  king  sought  Arden  in  his  tent,  and  to  the  wakeful  bard, 
Panting  and  pale,  disclosed  at  large  what  he  had  seen  and 

heard. 

Considering  which  a  little  time,  the  Master  sighed  and  spoke  : 
"  King,  thou  describest  by  his  bulk  and  by  his  clapping  cloak 
A  mighty  demon  of  the  old  time,  who,  with  much  dread  and 

fear 
Once  filled  the  race  of  Partholau ;  Manannan  Mor  Mac  Lir, 


28    THE  POETS- AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Son  of  the  Sea.     In  former  times  there  lived  not  on  the  face 

Of  Erin  a  sprite  of  bigger  bulk,  or  potenter  to  raise 

The  powers  of   air  by  land  or  sea,  in    lightning,  tempest, 

hail, 

Or  magical  thick  mist,  than  he,  albeit  in  woody  Fail 
Dwelt  many  demons  at  that  time.      But  being  so  huge  of 

limb, 

Manannan  had  the  overward  of  the  coast  allotted  him, 
To  stride  it  round,  from  cape  to  cape,  daily ;  and  if  a  fleet 
Hove  into  sight,  to  shake  them  down  a  sea-fog  from  his  feet ; 
Or  with  a  wafture  of  his  cloak  flap  forth  a  tempest  straight 
Would  drive  them  off  a  hundred  leagues.     And  so  he  kept 

his  state 

In  churlish  sort  about  our  bays  and  forelands,  till  at  last 
Great  Spanish  Miledh's  mighty  sons,  for  all  he  was  so  vast 
And  fell  a  churl,  in  spite  of  him,  by  dint  of  blows  made  good 
Their  landing,  and  brought  in  their  Druids,  from  which  time 

forth  the  brood 

Of  goblin  people  shun  the  light ;  some  in  the  hollow  sides 
Of  hills  lie  hid ;  some  hide  beneath  the  brackish  ocean-tides ; 
Some  underneath  the  sweet  well-springs.     Manannan,  poets 

say, 
Fled  to  the  isle  which  bears  his  name,  that  eastward  lies 

half-way 
Sailing  to  Britain;  whence  at  times  he  wades  the  narrow 

seas, 

Revisiting  his  old  domain,  wlren  evil  destinies 
Impend  o'er  Erin.     But  his  force  and  magic  might  are  gone ; 
And  at  such  times  't  is  said  that  he  who,  'twixt  twilight  and 

dawn, 
Meets  him  and  speaks  him,  safely  learns  a  year's  events  to 

be." 

"  But  he  who  speaks  him,"  Congal  said,  "  and  gains  no  an- 
swer, —  he  ]' ' 


THE  BARDS.  29 

"  Within  the  year,  the  seers  agree,"  said  Ardan,  "  he  must 

die; 

For  death  and  silence,  we  may  see,  bear  constant  company." 
"  Be  it  so,  Bard,"  replied  the  king  ;  "  to  die  is  soon  or  late 
For  every  being  born  alive  the  equal  doom  of  fate. 
Nor  grieve  I  much ;  nor  would  I  grieve  if  Heaven  had  so 

been  pleased 

That  either  I  had  not  been  born,  or  had  already  ceased, 
Being  born,  to  breathe ;  but  while  I  breathe  so  let  my  life 

be  spent 
As  in  renown  of  noble  deeds  to  find  a  monument." 


THE  WASHER  OF  THE  FORD. 

AND  now,  at  dawn,  to  cross  the  fords,  hard  by  the  royal  town, 
The  fresh,  well-ordered,  vigorous  bands  in  gallant  ranks  drew 

down ; 

When,  lo  !  a  spectre  horrible,  of  more  than  human  size, 
Full  in  the  middle  of  the  ford  took  all  their  wondering  eyes. 
A  ghastly  woman  it  appeared,  with  gray  dishevelled  hair 
Blood-draggled,    and   with    sharp-boned   arms,    and   fingers 

crooked  and  spare, 
Dabbling  and  washing  in  the  ford,  where  mid-leg  deep  she 

stood 

Beside  a  heap  of  heads  and  limbs  that  swam  in  oozing  blood, 
Where  on  and  on  a  glittering  heap  of  raiment  rich  and  brave 
With  swift,  pernicious  hands  she  scooped  and  poured  the 

crimsoned  wave. 
And  though  the  stream  approaching  her  ran  tranquil,  clear, 

and  bright, 
Sand  gleaming  between  verdant  banks,  a  fair  and  peaceful 

sight, 


30    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Downward  the  blood-polluted  flood  rode  turbid,  strong,  and 
proud, 

With  heady-eddying  dangerous  whirls  and  surges  dashing 
loud. 

All  stood  aghast.     But  Kelloch  cried,  "  Advance  me  to  the 
bank ; 

I  '11  speak  the  hag." 

But  back,  instead,  his  trembling  bearers  shrank. 

Then  Congal  from  the  foremost  rank  a  spear  cast  forward 
strode, 

And  said,    "  Who  art  thou,  hideous  one  1  and  from  what 
curst  abode 

Comest  thou  thus  in  open  day  the  hearts  of  men  to  freeze  1 

And  whose  lopped  heads  and  severed  limbs  and  bloody  vests 
are  these  1 " 

"  I  am  the  Washer  of  the  Ford,"  she  answered,  "  and  my 
race 

Is  of  the  Tuath  de  Danaan  line  of  Magi ;  and  my  place 

For  toil  is  in  the  running  streams  of  Erin  ;  and  my  cave 

For  sleep  is  in  the  middle  of  the  shell-heaped  Cairn  of  Maev, 

High  up  on  haunted  Knocknarea  j    and  this  fine  carnage- 
heap 

Before  me,  and  these  silken  vests  and  mantles  which  I  steep 

Thus  in  the  running  water,  are  the  severed  heads  and  hands 

And  spear-torn  scarfs  and  tunics  of  these  gay-dressed,  gal- 
lant bands 

Whom  thou,  0  Congal,  leadest  to  death.      And  this,"  the 
Fury  said, 

Uplifting  by  the  clotted  locks  what  seemed  a  dead  man's 
head, 

"  Is  thine  own  head,  0  Congal." 

Therewith  she  rose  in  air, 

And  vanished  from  the  warriors'  view,  leaving  the  river  bare 

Of  all  but  running  water. 


THE  BARDS.  31 


THE  LEGEND   OF   FERGUS 


BARD  UNKNOWN.     TENTH   CENTURY.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL 

FERGUSON. 

The  following  appears  in  the  first  gloss  of  the  Brehon  Law,  and  is 
characteristic  specimen  of  the  early  fairy  legends. 

ONE  day  King  Fergus,  Leide  Luthmar's  son, 

Drove  by  Loch  Rury  ;  and,  his  journey  done, 

Slept  in  his  chariot,  wearied.     While  he  slept, 

A  troop  of  fairies  o'er  his  cushions  crept. 

And,  first,  his  sharp,  dread  sword  they  filched  away  ; 

Then  bore  himself,  feet  forward,  to  the  bay. 

He,  with  the  chill  touch,  woke  ;  and,  at  a  snatch, 

It  fortuned  him  in  either  hand  to  catch 

A  full-grown  sprite  ;  while,  'twixt  his  breast  and  arm, 

He  pinned  a  youngling.     They,  in  dire  alarm, 

Writhed  hard  and  squealed.     He  held  the  tighter.     Then 

"  Quarter  !  "  and  "  Ransom  !  "  cried  the  little  men. 

"No  quarter,"  he  :  "nor  go  ye  hence  alive, 

Unless  ye  gift  me  with  the  art  to  dive 

Long  as  I  will,  —  to  walk  at  large,  and  breathe 

The  seas,  the  lochs,  the  river  floods  beneath." 

"  We  will."     He  loosed  them.     Herbs  of  virtue  they 

Placed  in  his  ear-holes  ;  or,  as  others  say, 

A  hood  of  fairy  texture  o'er  his  head, 

Much  like  a  cleric's  cochal,  drew,  and  said, 

"  Wear  this,  and  walk  the  deeps  ;  but  well  beware 

Thou  enter  nowise  in  Loch  Rury  there." 

Clad  in  his  cowl,  through  many  deeps  he  went, 

And  saw  their  wonders  ;  but  was  not  content 

Unless  Loch  Rury  also  to  his  eyes 

Revealed  its  inner  under-mysteries. 


32        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Thither  he  came,  and  plunged  therein ;  and  there 

The  Muirdris  met  him.     Have  you  seen  a  pair 

Of  blacksmith's  bellows  open  out  and  close 

Alternate  'neath  the  hand  of  him  that  blows  ? 

So  swelled  it,  and  so  shrunk.     The  hideous  sight 

Hung  all  his  visage  sideways  with  affright. 

He  fled.     He  gained  the  bank.     "  How  seems  my  cheer, 

0  Mwena  1  '*     "  111 ! "  replied  the  charioteer. 

"  But  rest  thee.     Sleep  thy  wildness  will  compose." 

He  slept.     Swift  Mwena  to  Emania  goes : 

"  Whom  now  for  king,  since  Fergus*  face  awry 

By  law  demeans  him  of  the  sovereignty  1 " 

"  Hush  ! "  and  his  sages  and  physicians  wise 

In  earnest  council  sit,  and  thus  advise : 

"  He  knows  not  of  his  plight.     To  keep  him  so 

As  he  suspect  not  that  he  ought  not  know,  — 

For  so  the  mind  be  straight,  and  just  awards 

Wait  on  the' judgment,  right-read  law  regards 

No  mere  distortion  of  the  outward  frame 

As  blemish  barring  from  the  kingly  name,  — 

And,  knew  he  all  the  baleful  fact  you  tell, 

An  inward  wrench  might  warp  the  mind  as  well,  — 

Behooves  it  therefore  all  of  idle  tongue, 

Jesters,  and  women,  and  the  witless  young, 

Be  from  his  presence.     And  when  at  morn 

He  takes  his  bath,  behooves  his  bondmaid,  Dorn, 

Muddy  the  water,  lest,  perchance,  he  trace 

Lost  kingship's  token  on  his  imaged  face." 

Three  years  they  kept  him  so ;  till,  on  a  day, 

Dorn  with  his  face-bath'  ewer  had  made  delay  ; 

And  fretted  Fergus,  petulant  and  rash, 

A  blow  bestowed  her  of  his  horse-whip  lash. 

Forth  burst  the  woman's  anger  :"Thou  a  king  ! 

Thou  sit  in  council  I    Thou  adjudge  a  thing 


THE  BARDS.  33 

In  court  of  law  !     Thou,  who  no  kingship  can, 
Since  all  may  see  thou  art  a  blemished  man  ! 
Thou  wry-mouth  ! "     Fergus  thereon  slew  the  maid  ; 
And,  to  Loch  Rury's  brink  in  haste  conveyed, 
Went  in  at  Fertais.     For  a  day  and  night 
Beneath  the  waves  he  rested  out  of  sight  ; 
But  all  the  Ultonians  on  the  bank  who  stood 
Saw  the  loch  boil  and  redden  with  the  blood. 
When  next  at  sunrise  skies  grew  also  red, 
He  rose  —  and  in  his  hand  the  Muirdris'  head.  — 
Gone  was  the  blemish.     On  his  goodly  face 
Each  trait  symmetric  had  resumed  its  place ; 
And  they  who  saw  him  marked  in  all  his  mien 
A  king's  composure,  ample  and  serene. 
He  smiled  :  he  cast  his  trophy  to  the  bank, 
Said,  "  I  survivor,  Ulstermen !  "  and  sank. 


THE  SPEAR   OF   KELTAR. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  W.  M.  HENNESSY. 

The  following  nearly  literal  version  from  the  ancient  tale  of  the 
Bruidhin  Da  Dcrga  gives  an  idea  of  the  fabled  weapons  of  the  Irish 
heroes.  The  famous  sword  of  Finn  was  the  child  of  this  terrible 
spear. 

WHAT  further  sawest  "thou  1 

By  the  royal  chair 

A  couch  I  saw.     Three  heroes  sat  thereon, 
In  their  first  grayness,  they  ;  gray-dark  their  robes  ; 
Gray-dark  their  swords,  enormous,  of  an  edge 
To  slice  the  hair  on  water.     He  who  sits 
The  midmost  of  the  three  grasps  with  both  hands 


34    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

A  spear  of  fifty  rivets ;  and  so  sways 

And  swings  the  weapon,  which  would  else  give  forth 

Its  shout  of  conflict,  that  he  keeps  it  in ; 

Though  thrice,  essaying  to  escape  his  hands, 

It  doubles,  darting  on  him,  heel  to  point, 

A  caldron  at  his  feet,  big  as  the  vat 

Of  a  king's  guest-house.     In  that  vat,  a  pool, 

Hideous  to  look  upon,  of  liquor  black. 

Therein  he  dips  and  cools  the  blade  by  times ; 

Else  all  its  shaft  would  blaze,  as  though  a  fire 

Had  wrapped  the  king-post  of  the  house  in  flames. 

Resolve  me  now  and  say  what  't  was  I  saw. 

Not  hard  to  say.     These  champion  warriors  three 
Are  Sencha,  beauteous  son  of  Olioll ; 
Dubthach,  the  fierce  Ulidian  addercop ; 
And  Goibnen,  son  of  Luignech ;  and  the  spear 
In  hands  of  Dubthach  is  the  famous  Lon 
Of  Keltar,  son  of  Uitechar,  which  erst 
Some  wizard  of  the  Tuath-da-Danaan  brought 
To  battle  at  Moy-Tura,  and  there  lost, 
Found  after.     And  these  motions  of  the  spear,  r 
And  sudden  sallies  hard  to  be  restrained, 
Affect  it  oft  as  blood  of  enemies 
Is  ripe  for  spilling.     And  a  caldron,  then, 
Full  of  witch-brewage,  needs  must  be  at  hand, 
To  quench  it,  when  the  homicidal  act 
Is  by  its  blade  expected.     Quench  it  not,  — 
It  blazes  up,  even  in  the  holder's  hand ; 
And  through  the  holder,  and  the  door-planks  through, 
Flies  forth  to  sate  itself  in  massacre. 


THE  BARDS.  35 

CUCHULLIN'S  CHARIOT. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  KEV.  "W.  H.  DRUMMOND. 

The  original,  of  which  this  is  a  considerably  amplified  version,  is 
from  an  old  Irish  romance  entitled  "  The  Breach  of  the  Plain  of  Aluir- 
hevney." 

THE  car,  light-moving,  I  behold, 
Adorned  with  gems  and  studs  of  gold  ; 
Ruled  by  the  hand  of  skilful  guide, 
Swiftly  —  and  swiftly  —  see  it  glide  ! 
Sharp-formed  before,  through  dense  array 
Of  foes  to  cut  its  onward  way  ; 
While  o'er  its  firm-fixed  seat  behind 
Swells  the  green  awning  in  the  wind. 
It  mates  in  speed  the  swallow's  flight, 
Or  roebuck  bounding  fleet  and  light, 
Or  fairy  breeze  of  viewless  wing, 
That  in  the  joyous  day  of  spring 
Flies  o'er  the  champaign's  grassy  bed, 
And  up  the  cairn-crowned  mountain's  head. 

Comes  thundering  on,  unmatched  in  speed, 
The  gallant  gray,  high-bounding  steed ; 
His  four  firm  hoofs,  at  every  bound, 
Scarce  seem  to  touch  the  solid  ground, 
Outflashing  from  their  flinty  frame 
Flash  upon  flash  of  ruddy  flame. 
The  other  steed,  of  equal  pace, 
Well  shaped  to  conquer  in  the  race  ; 
Of  slender  limb,  firm-knit,  and  strong, 
His  small,  light  head  he  lifts  on  high, 


36    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Impetuous  as  he  scours  along ; 

Red  lightning  glances  from  his  eye  ; 
Flung  on  his.  curving  neck  and  chest 
Toss  his  crisped  manes  like  warrior's  crest 
Of  the  wild  chafer's  dark-brown  hues, 
The  color  that  his  flanks  imbues. 
The  charioteer,  of  aspect  fair, 

In  front  high-seated  rides ; 
He  holds  the  polished  reins  with  care, 

And  safe  and  swiftly  guides, 
With  pliant  will  and  practised  hand, 
Obedient  to  his  lord's  command,  — 
That  splendid  chief,  whose  visage  glows 
As  brilliant  as  the  crimson  rose. 
Around  his  brows,  in  twisted  fold, 
A  purple  satin  band  is  rolled, 
All  sparkling  bright  with  gems  and  gold  : 
And  such  his  majesty  and  grace 
As  speak  him  bom  of  royal  race  ; 
"Worthy,  by  deeds  of  high  renown, 
To  win  and  wear  a  monarch's  crown. 

The  following  is  McPherson's  description  of  Cuchullin's  car  :  "  The 
car,  the  car  of  war  comes  on,  like  the  flame  of  death  !  the  rapid  car  of 
Cuchullin,  the  noble  son  of  Semo  !  It  bends  behind  like  a  wave  near 
a  rock,  like  the  sun-streaked  mist  of  the  heath.  Its  sides  are  embossed 
with  stones,  and  sparkle  like  the  sea  round  the  boat  of  night.  Of  pol- 
ished yew  is  its  beam  ;  its  seat  of  the  smoothest  bone.  The  sides  are 
replenished  with  spears  ;  the  bottom  is  the  footstool  of  heroes."  — Fin- 
gal,  Book  I. 


THE  BARDS.  37 


DEIRDRE'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE  SONS  OF  USNACH. 

BARD  UNKNOWN.    DATE  UNCERTAIN.     TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL 
FERGUSON. 

The  legend  of  Deirdre  is  one  of  the  most  famous  in  Irish  history. 
It  was  foretold  at  her  birth  that  her  charms  would  be  fatal  to  the  royal 
house  of  Emania,  and  she  was  confined  in  a  tower  by  the  king,  Conor 
Mac  Nessa.  She  fled  with  one  of  the  sons  of  Usnach,  and  escaped  with 
him  to  the  Hebrides,  from  which  they  were  enticed  back  on  a  pledge  of 
safe  conduct  from  the  king,  and  were  overpowered  and  murdered  after 
a  desperate  defence.  The  reader  will  be  reminded  of  Roscoe's  ballad, 
"  Dig  a  Grave,  and  Dig  it  Deep." 

THE  lions  of  the  hill  are  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  —  alone  : 
Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 
For  I  am  sick  and  fain  would  sleep. 

The  falcons  of  the  wood  are  flown, 
And  I  am  left  alone  —  alone : 
Dig  the  grave  both  deep  and  wide, 
And  let  us  slumber  side  by  side. 

The  dragons  of  the  rock  are  sleeping,  — 
Sleep  that  wakes  not  for  our  weeping : 
Dig  the  grave  and  make  it  ready, 
Lay  me  on  my  truelove's  body. 

Lay  their  spears  and  bucklers  bright 
By  the  warrior's  sides  aright : 
Many  a  day  the  three  before  me 
On  their  linked  bucklers  bore  me. 


38    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Lay  upon  the  low  grave  floor, 
'Neath  each  head,  the  blue  claymore  : 
Many  a  time  the  noble  three 
Reddened  these  blue  blades  for  me. 

Lay  the  collars,  as  is  meet, 
Of  their  greyhounds  at  their  feet : 
Many  a  time  for  me  have  they 
Brought  the  tall  red  deer  to  bay. 

In  the  falcon's  jesses  throw 
Hook  and  arrow,  line  and  bow  : 
Never  again  by  stream  or  plain 
Shall  the  gentle  woodsmen  go. 

Sweet  companions  were  ye  ever ; 
Harsh  to  me,  your  sister,  never ; 
Woods  and  wilds,  and  misty  valleys, 
Were  with  you  as  good  's  a  palace. 

Oh  !  to  hear  my  truelove  singing, 
Sweet  as  sounds  of  trumpets  ringing  ! 
Like  the  sway  of  ocean  swelling 
Rolled  his  deep  voice  round  our  dwelling. 

Oh  !  to  hear  the  echoes  pealing 
Round  our  green  and  fairy  sheeling, 
When  the  three,  with  soaring  chorus, 
Made  the  skylark  silent  o'er  us  ! 

Echo,  now  sleep  morn  and  even ; 
Lark,  alone  enchant  the  heaven  ; 
Ardan's  lips  are  scant  of  breath, 
Neesa's  tongue  is  cold  in  death. 


THE  BARDS.  39 

Stag,  exult  on  glen  and  mountain ; 
Salmon,  leap  from  loch  to  fountain ; 
Heron,  in  the  free  air  warm  ye, 
Usnach's  sons  no  more  will  harm  ye. 

Erin's  stay  no  more  ye  are, 
Rulers  of  the  ridge  of  war ; 
Never  more  't  will  be  your  fate 
To  keep  the  beam  of  battle  straight. 

Woe  is  me  !  by  fraud  and  wrong, 
Traitors  false  and  tyrants  strong, 
Fell  Clan  Usnach  bought  and  sold,  v 

For  Barach's  feast  and  Conor's  gold. 

Woe  to  Ernan,  roof  and  wall ! 
Woe  to  Red  Branch,  hearth  and  hall ! 
Tenfold  woe  and  black  dishonor 
To  the  foul  and  false  Clan  Conor ! 

Dig  the  grave  both  wide  and  deep, 
Sick  I  am  and  fain  would  sleep  : 
Dig  the  grave  and  make  it  ready, 
Lay  me  on  my  truelove's  body. 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  THE  GAEL. 

FEARFLATHA  O'GNIVE,  BARD  OF  NIAL.     CIRCA  1562.    TRANS.  BY 
SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

MY  heart  is  in  woe, 

And  my  soul  deep  in  trouble, 

For  the  mighty  are  low 
And  abased  are  the  noble. 


40    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  sons  of  the  Gael 

Are  in  exile  and  mourning ; 

Worn,  weary,  and  pale, 

As  spent  pilgrims  returning ; 

Or  men  who,  in  flight 

From  the  field  of  disaster, 

Beseech  the  black  night 

On  their  flight  to  fall  faster ; 

Or  seamen  aghast, 

"When  the  planks  gape  asunder, 
•**£  And  the  waves  fierce  and  fast 

Tumble  through  in  hoarse  thunder ; 

Or  men  whom  we  see 

That  have  got  their  death  omen  j  — 
Such  wretches  are  we 

In  the  chains  of  our  foemen ! 

Our  courage  is  fear, 

Our  nobility  vileness  j 
Our  hope  is  despair, 

And  our  comeliness  foulness. 

There  is  mist  on  our  heads, 
And  a  cloud,  chill  and  hoary, 

Of  black  sorrow  sheds 
An  eclipse  on  our  glory. 

From  Boyne  to  the  Linn 

Has  the  mandate  been  given, 

That  the  children  of  Finn 

From  their  country  be  driven ; 


THE  BARDS.  41 

That  the  sons  of  the  king  — 

Oh,  the  treason  and  malice  !  — 
Shall  no  more  ride  the  ring 

In  their  own  native  valleys ; 

No  more  shall  repair 

Where  the  hill  foxes  tarry, 
Nor  forth  in  the  air 

Fling  the  hawk  at  her  quarry. 

For  the  plain  shall  be  broke 

By  the  share  of  the  stranger, 
And  the  stone-mason's  stroke 

Tell  the  woods  of  their  danger  j 

The  green  hills  and  shore 

Be  with  white  keeps  disfigured, 
And  the  moat  of  Rathmore 

Be  the  Saxon  churl's  haggard  j 

The  land  of  the  lakes 

Shall  no  more  know  the  prospect 
Of  valleys  and  brakes, 

So  transformed  is  her  aspect  j 

The  Gael  cannot  tell, 

In  the  uprooted  wild-wood, 
And  red,  ridgy  dell, 

The  old  nurse  of  his  childhood  ; 

The  nurse  of  his  youth 

Is  in  doubt  as  she  views  him, 
If  the  pale  wretch  in  truth 

Be  a  child  of  her  bosom. 


42    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

We  starve  by  the  board, 

And  we  thirst  amid  wassail ; 

For  the  guest  is  the  lord, 
And  the  host  is  the  vassal. 

Through  the  woods  let  us  roam, 

Through  the  wastes  wild  and  barren ; 

We  are  strangers  at  home, 
We  are  exiles  in  Erin  ! 

And  Erin 's  a  bark 

O'er  the  wild  waters  driven  ; 

And  the  tempest  howls  dark, 
And  her  side  planks  are  riven ; 

And  in  billows  of  might 
Swell  the  Saxon  before  her. 

Unite,  —  0,  unite, 
Or  the  billows  burst  o'er  her  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  CLANS  OF  WICKLOW. 

BARD  OF  THE  O'BYRNES.    CIRCA  1580.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL 

FERGUSON. 

GOD  be  with  the  Irish  host ! 
Never  be  their  battle  lost ! 
For  in  battle  never  yet 
Have  they  basely  earned  defeat. 

Host  of  armor  red  and  bright, 
May  ye  fight  a  valiant  fight 
For  the  green  spot  of  the  earth, 
For  the  laud  that  gave  you  birth  ! 


THE  BARDS.  43 

Who  in  Erin's  cause  would  stand, 
Brothers  of  the  avenging  band, 
He  must  wed  immortal  quarrel, 
Pain,  and  sweat,  and  bloody  peril. 

On  the  mountain  bare  and  steep 
Snatching  short  but  pleasant  sleep, 
Then,  ere  sunrise,  from  his  eyrie 
Swooping  on  the  Saxon  quarry. 

What  although  you  've  failed  to  keep 
Liffey's  plain  or  Tara's  steep, 
Cashel's  pleasant  streams  to  save, 
Or  the  meads  of  Croghan  Maev  1 

Want  of  conduct  lost  the  town, 
Broke  the  white-walled  castle  down, 
Moira  lost,  and  old  Taltin, 
And  let  the  conquering  stranger  in. 

'T  was  the  want  of  right  command, 
Not  the  lack  of  heart  or  hand, 
Left  your  hills  and  plains  to-day 
'Neath  the  strong  Clan  Saxon's  sway. 

Ah  !  had  Heaven  never  sent 
Discord  for  our  punishment, 
Triumphs  few  o'er  Erin's  host 
Had  Clan  London  now  to  boast ! 

Woe  is  me,  't  is  God's  decree 
Strangers  have  the  victory ! 
Irishmen  may  now  be  found 
Outlaws  upon  Irish  ground. 


44        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OP  IRELAND. 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  den 
Lies  the  chief  by  hill  and  glen, 
While  the  strangers,  proud  and  savage, 
Criffan's  richest  valleys  ravage. 

Woe  is  me  the  foul  offence, 
'    Treachery,  and  violence 
Done  against  my  people's  rights  ! 
Well  may  mine  be  restless  nights  ! 

When  old  Leinster's  sons  of  fame, 
Heads  of  many  a  warlike  name, 
Redden  their  victorious  hilts 
On  the  Gaul,  my  soul  exults. 

When  the  grim  Gaul,  who  have  come 
Hither  o'er  the  ocean  foam, 
From  the  fight  victorious  go, 
Then  my  heart  sinks  deadly  low. 

Bless  the  blades  our  warriors  draw  ! 
God  be  with  Clan  Ranelagh  ! 
But  my  soul  is  weak  for  fear, 
Thinking  of  their  danger  here. 

Have  them  in  thy  holy  keeping ! 
God  be  with  them  lying  sleeping, 
God  be  with  them  standing  fighting, 
Erin's  foes  in  battle  smiting ! 


THE  BARDS.  45 


LAMENT  FOR  THE  PRINCES  OF  TYRONE  AND 
TYRCONNELL. 

OWEN  ROE  MAC  AN  BHAIRD.   CIRCA  1610.    TEANS.  BY  J.  C.  MANGAN. 

This  lamentation  relates  to  the  death  of  Hugh,  Earl  O'Neill,  and 
Rory,  Earl  O'Donnell,  princes  of  the  houses  of  Tyrone  and  Tyrconnell, 
who  fled  to  Rome  in  1607,  and,  dying  there,  were  buried  in  one  grave. 
It  is  addressed  to  Nuala,  the  Fair-Shouldered,  sister  of  O'Donnell. 

0  WOMAN  of  the  Piercing  Wail, 

Who  mournest  o'er  yon  mound  of  clay 

With  sigh  and  groan, 
Would  God  thou  wert  among  the  Gael ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  then  from  day  to  day 

Weep  thus  alone. 

'T  were  long  before,  around  a  grave 
In  green  Tirconnell,  one  could  find 

This  loneliness ; 

Near  where  Beann-Boirche's  banners  wave, 
Such  grief  as  thine  could  ne'er  have  pined 
Companionless. 

Beside  the  wave  in  Donegal, 

In  Antrim's  glens,  or  fair  Dromore, 

Or  Killillee, 

Or  where  the  sunny  waters  fall, 
At  Assaroe,  near  Ema's  shore, 

This  could  not  be. 
On  Derry's  plains,  in  rich  Drumclieff, 

Throughout  Armagh  the  Great,  renowned 

In  olden  years, 

No  day  could  pass  but  woman's  grief 
Would  rain  upon  the  burial-ground 
Fresh  floods  of  tears ! 


46    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

0,  no  !  —  from  Shannon,  Boyne,  and  Suir, 
From  high  Dunluce's  castle-walls, 

From  Lissadil, 
Would  flock  alike  both  rich  and  poor. 

One  wail  would  rise  from  Cruachan's  halls 

To  Tara's  hill ; 

And  some  would  come  from  Barrow-side, 
And  many  a  maid  would  leave  her  home 

On  Leitrim's  plains, 
And  by  melodious  Banna's  tide, 

And  by  the  Mourne  and  Erne,  to  come 
And  swell  thy  strains  ! 

0,  horses'  hoofs  would  trample  down 
The  Mount  whereon  the  martyr  saint 

Was  crucified. 

From  glen  and  hill,  from  plain  and  town, 
One  loud  lament,  one  thrilling  plaint, 

Would  echo  wide. 

There  would  not  soon  be  found,  I  ween, 
One  foot  of  ground  among  those  bands 

For  museful  thought, 
So  many  shriekers  of  the  keen 

Would  cry  aloud,  and  clap  their  hands, 
All  woe-distraught ! 

Two  princes  of  the  line  of  Conn 
Sleep  in  their  cells  of  clay  beside 

O'Donnell  Roe  : 

Three  royal  youths,  alas  !  are  gone, 
Who  lived  for  Erin's  weal,  but  died 

For  Erin's  woe  ! 

Ah !  could  the  men  of  Ireland  read 
The  names  these  noteless  burial  stones 
Display  to  view, 


THE  BARDS.  47 

Their  wounded  hearts  afresh  would  bleed, 
Their  tears  gush  forth  again,  their  groans 
Resound  anew ! 

The  youths  whose  relics  moulder  here 

Were  sprung  from  Hugh,  high  Prince  and  Lord 

Of  Aileach's  lands ; 
Thy  noble  brothers,  justly  dear, 
Thy  nephew,  long  to  be  deplored 

By  Ulster's  bands. 

Theirs  were  not  souls  wherein  dull  Time 
Could  domicile  Decay  or  house 

Decrepitude  ! 

They  passed  from  eartji  ere  manhood's  prime, 
Ere  years  had  power  to  dim  their  brows 
Or  chill  their  blood. 

And  who  can  marvel  o'er  thy  grief, 
Or  who  can  blame  thy  flowing  tears, 

That  knows  their  source  1 
O'Donnell,  Dunnasava's  chief, 
Cut  off  amid  his  vernal  years, 

Lies  here  a  corse 

Beside  his  brother  Cathbar,  whom 
Tirconnell  of  the  Helmets  mourns 

In  deep  despair,  — 
For  valor,  truth,  and  comely  bloom, 
For  all  that  greatens  and  adorns, 
A  peerless  pair. 

0,  had  these  twain,  and  he,  the  third, 
The  Lord  of  Mourne,  O'Niall's  son, 

Their  mate  in  death,  — 
A  prince  in  look,  in  deed  and  word,  — 


48    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Had  these  three  heroes  yielded  on 

The  field  their  breath,  — 
0,  had  they  fallen  on  Criffan's  plain, 
There  would  not  be  a  town  or  clan, 

From  shore  to  sea, 

But  would  with  shrieks  bewail  the  Slain, 
Or  chant  aloud  the  exulting  rann 
Of  jubilee  ! 

"When  high  the  shout  of  battle  rose 

On  fields  where  Freedom's  torch  still  burned 

Through  Erin's  gloom, 
If  one,  if  barely  one,  of  those 

Were  slain,  all  Ulster  would  have  mourned 

The  hero's  doom  ! 

If  at  Athboy,  where  hosts  of  brave 
Ulidian  horsemen  sank  beneath 

The  shock  of  spears, 

Young  Hugh  O'Neill  had  found  a  grave, 
Long  must  the  North  have  wept  his  death 
With  heart-wrung  tears  ! 

If  on  the  day  of  Ballachmyre 

The  Lord  of  Mourne  had  met,  thus  young, 

A  warrior's  fate, 
In  vain  would  such  as  thou  desire 

To  mourn,  alone,  the  champion  sprung 

From  Niall  the  Great ! 
No  marvel  this,  —  for  all'  the  Dead, 
Heaped  on  the  field,  pile  over  pile, 

At  Rullach-brack, 
Were  scarce  an  eric  for  his  head 

If  Death  had  stayed  his  footsteps  while 
On  victory's  track  ! 


THE  BARDS.  49 

If  on  the  Day  of  Hostages 

The  fruit  had  from  the  parent  bough 

Been  rudely  torn 

In  sight  of  Munster's  bauds,  —  Mac  Nee's,  — 
Such  blow  the  blood  of  Conn,  I  trow, 

Could  ill  have  borne. 
If  on  the  day  of  Balloch-boy 

Some  arm  had  laid,  by  foul  surprise, 

The  chieftain  low, 
Even  our  victorious  shout  of  joy 

Would  soon  give  place  to  rueful  cries 
And  groans  of  woe  ! 

If  on  the  day  the  Saxon  host 

Were  forced  to  fly  —  a  day  so  great 

For  Ashanee  — 
The  Chief  had  been  untimely  lost, 

Our  conquering  troops  should  moderate 

Their  mirthful  glee, 
There  would  not  lack  on  Lifford's  day 
From  Gal  way,  from  the  glens  of  Boyle, 

From  Limerick's  towers, 
A  marshalled  file,  a  long  array, 
Of  mourners  to  bedew  the  soil 
With  tears  in  showers ! 

If  on  the  day  a  sterner  fate 

Compelled  his  flight  from  Athenree, 

His  blood  had  flowed, 
What  numbers  all  disconsolate 

Would  come  unasked,  and  share  with  thee 

Affliction's  load ! 
If  Derry's  crimson  field  had  seen 

His  lifeblood  offered  up,  though  't  were 
On  Victory's  shrine, 


50    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

A  thousand  cries  would  swell  the  keen, 
A  thousand  voices  of  despair 
Would  echo  thine ! 

0,  had  the  fierce  Dalcassian  swarm 
That  bloody  night  on  Fergus'  banks 

But  slain  our  Chief, 
When  rose  his  camp  in  wild  alarm, 
How  would  the  triumph  of  his  ranks 

Be  dashed  with  grief! 
How  would  the  troops  of  Murbach  mourn 
If  on  the  Curlew  Mountains'  day, 

Which  England  rued, 
Some  Saxon  hand  had  left  them  lorn, 
By  shedding  there,  amid  the  fray, 
Their  prince's  blood ! 

Red  would  have  been  our  warriors'  eyes 
Had  Roderick  found  on  Sligo's  field 

A  gory  grave  ; 

No  Northern  chief  would  soon  arise 
So  sage  to  guide,  so  strong  to  shield, 

So  swift  to  save. 

Long  would  Leith-Cuinn  have  wept  if  Hugh 
Had  met  the  death  he  oft  had  dealt 

Among  the  foe ; 

But  had  our  Roderick  fallen  top, 
All  Erin  must,  alas  !  have  felt 
The  deadly  blow ! 

What  do  I  say  1    Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 
Already  we  bewail  in  vain 

Their  fatal  fall ! 
And  Erin,  once  the  Great  and  Free, 


THE  BARDS.  51 

Now  vainly  mourns  her  breakless  chain 

And  iron  thrall ! 

Then,  daughter  of  O'Donnell,  dry 
Thine  overflowing  eyes,  and  turn 

Thy  heart  aside, 
For  Adam's  race  is  bora  to  die, 
And  sternly  the  sepulchral  urn 
Mocks  human  pride ! 

Look  not,  nor  sigh,  for  earthly  throne, 
Nor  place  thy  trust  in  arm  of  clay, 

But  on  thy  knees 
Uplift  thy  soul  to  God  alone, 

For  all  things  go  their  destined  way 

As  he  decrees. 
Embrace  the  faithful  Crucifix, 

And  seek  the  path  of  pain  and  prayer 

Thy  Saviour  trod ; 
Nor  let  thy  spirit  intermix 

With  earthly  hope  and  worldly  care 
Its  groans  to  God  I 

And  thou,  0  mighty  Lord  !  whose  ways 
Are  far  above  our  feeble  minds 

To  understand, 
Sustain  us  in  these  doleful  days, 

And  render  light  the  chain  that  binds 

Our  fallen  land  ! 

Look  down  upon  our  dreary  state, 
And  through  the  ages  that  may  still 

Roll  sadly  on, 

Watch  thou  o'er  hapless  Erin's  fate, 
And  shield  at  least  from  darker  ill 
The  blood  of  Conn ! 


52        THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


DARK  ROSALEEN. 

BARD  OF  THE  O'DONNELL.    ELIZABETHAN  ERA.    TRANS.  BY 
J.  C.  MANGAN. 

"Dark  Rosaleen,"  or  "Rosin  Dubh,"  the  "Little  Black  Rose,"  is 
one  of  the  many  allegorical  names  with  which  Ireland  began  to  be  ad- 
dressed at  this  period.  The  author  was  one  of  the  bards  of  the  cele- 
brated Hugh  Roe  O'Donnell ;  and  the  expressions  "Spanish  ale"  and 
"  Roman  wine  "  allude  to  expected  help  from  Spain  and  Rome. 

0  MY  Dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  Deep. 
There  's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green  ; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 
My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Over  hills  and  through  dales, 

Have  I  roamed  for  your  sake  ; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  with  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne  at  its  highest  flood 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
My  own  Rosaleen ! 

Oh  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


THE  BARDS.  53 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move ; 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 
To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen ; 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
My  own  Rosaleen ! 

'T  is  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'T  is  you  shall  reign  and  reign  alone,  ^ 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal ; 
Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 
From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en 
You'll  pray  forme,  my  flower  of  flowers, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
My  fond  Rosaleen ! 


54    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

You  '11  think  of  me  through  Daylight's  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh  !   I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 
My  fond  Rosaleen ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Oh  !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood  j 
And  gun- peal  and  slogan-cry 
Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 
My  own  Rosaleen ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 
My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 


THE  BARDS.  55 


KEEN    ON    MAURICE    FITZGERALD,   KNIGHT    OF 
KERRY. 

PEIRSE  FERRITER.    TRANS.  BY  T.  CROFTON  CROKER. 

The  following  keen  on  the  death  of  Maurice  Fitzgerald,  Knight  of 
Kerry,  who  was  killed  in  Flanders  about  the  year  1672,  contains  an 
allusion  to  the  superstition  of  the  Banshee,  common  in  Irish  legend. 
The  Banshees  were  aged  women,  who  wailed  by  night  when  the  heir  of 
a  noble  family  was  about  to  die. 

I  HAD  heard  lamentations 

And  sad  warning  cries 
From  the  Banshees  of  many 

Broad  districts  arise. 
I  besought  thee,  0  Christ, 

To  protect  me  from  pain ; 
I  prayed,  but  my  prayers 

They  were  offered  in  vain. 


Acria  from  her  closely 

Hid  nest  did  awake 
The  women  of  wailing 

At  Sur's  rosy  lake. 
From  Glen  Fogra  of  woods 

Came  a  mournful  whine, 
And  all  Kerry's  hags 

Wept  the  lost  Geraldine. 

The  Banshees  of  Youghall 
And  stately  Mogeely 

"Were  joined  in  their  grief 
By  wide  Imokilly. 


56    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Carah  Mona  in  gloom 
Of  deep  sorrow  appears, 

And  all  Kilnameaky  's 
Absorbed  into  tears. 

The  prosperous  Saxons 

Were  seized  with  affright ; 
In  Tralee  they  packed  up 

And  made  ready  for  flight ; 
For  there  a  shrill  voice 

At  the  door  of  each  hall 
Was  heard,  and  they  fancied 

Foretelling  their  fall. 

At  Dingle  the  merchants 

In  terror  forsook 
Their  ships  and  their  business ; 

They  trembled  and  shook  ; 
Some  fled  to  concealment,  — 

The  fools,  thus  to  fly  ! 
For  no  trader  a  Banshee 

Will  utter  a  cry. 

The  Banshee  of  Dunqueen 

In  sweet  song  did  deplore 
To  the  spirit  that  watches 

On  dark  Dun-an-oir, 
And  Ennismore's  maid 

By  the  Feal's  gloomy  wave 
With  her  clear  voice  did  mourn 

For  the  death  of  the  brave. 

On  stormy  Slieve  Mis 

Spread  the  cry  far  and  wide, 


THE  BARDS.  57 

From  steep  Slieve  Finnalenn 

The  wild  eagle  replied. 
'Mong  the  Reeks,  like  the 

Thunder-peal's  echoing  shout, 
It  bursts,  and  deep  bellows 

Bright  Brandon  gives  out. 

Such  warring,  I  thought, 

Could  be  only  for  him  ; 
The  blood  shower  that  made 

The  gay  harvest  field  dim, 
The  fiery  tailed  star 

That  a  comet  men  call, 
Were  omens  of  his 

As  of  great  Caesar's  fall. 

The  localities  mentioned  are  lakes,  mountains,  and  glens  in  the  South 
of  Ireland,  in  the  counties  of  Cork,  Limerick,  and  Kerry. 


A  FAREWELL  TO   PATRICK  SARSFIELLX 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  J.  C.  MANGAN. 

FAREWELL,  0  Patrick  Sarsfield !   May  luck  be  on  your  path  ! 

Your  camp  is  broken  up,  your  work  is  marred  for  years ; 
But  you  go  to  kindle  into  flame  the  king  of  France's  wrath, 
Though  you  leave  sick  Eire  in  tears. 
Och !  ochone ! 

May  the  white  sun  and  moon  rain  glory  on  your  head, 

All  hero  as  you  are,  and  holy  man  of  God  ! 
To  you  the  Saxons  owe  a  many  an  hour  of  dread, 
In  the  land  you  have  often  trod, 
Och !  ochone ! 


58    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  Son  of  Mary  guard  you  and  bless  you  to  the  end ! 
'T  is  altered  is  the  time  since  your  legions  were  astir, 
When,  at  Cullen,you  were  hailed  as  the  Conqueror  and  Friend, 
And  you.  crossed  Narrow-water,  near  Birr, 
Och  !  ochone  ! 

I  '11  journey  to  the  North,  over  mount,  moor,  and  wave. 
'T  was  there  I  first  beheld,  drawn  up  in  file  and  line, 
The  brilliant  Irish  hosts,  —  they  were  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 
But,  alas  !  they  scorned  to  combine ! 
Och !  ochone  ! 

I  saw  at  royal  Boyne,  when  its  billows  flashed  with  blood ; 

I  fought  at  Grain  a  Oge,  where  a  thousand  horsemen  fell ; 
On  the  dark,  empurpled  field  of  Aughrim,  too,  I  stood, 
On  the  plain  by  Tubberdonny's  Well, 
Och  !  ochone  ! 

To  the  heroes  of  Limerick,  the  City  of  the  Fights, 
Be  my  best  blessing,  borne  on  the  wings  of  air ! 
We  had  card-playing  there,  o'er  our  camp-fires  at  night, 
And  the  Word  of  Life,  too,  and  prayer. 
Och !  ochone ! 

But  for  you,  Londonderry,  may  Plague  smite  and  slay 

Your  people  !     May  Ruin  desolate  you,  stone  by  stone  ! 
Through  you  a  many  a  gallant  youth  lies  cofnnless  to-day, 
With  the  winds  for  mourners  alone  ! 
Och !  ochone ! 

I  clomb  the  high  hill  on  a  fair  summer  noon, 

And  saw  the  Saxon  muster,  clad  in  armor,  blinding  bright ; 
Oh,  rage  withheld  my  hand,  or  gunsman  and  dragoon 
Should  have  supped  with  Satan  that  night ! 
Och  !  ochone  ! 


THE  BARDS.  59 

How  many  a  noble  soldier,  how  many  a  cavalier, 

Careered  along  this  road,  seven  fleeting  weeks  ago, 
With  silver-hilted  sword,  with  matchlock,  and  with  spear, 
Who  now,  mo  bhron,  lieth  low ! 
Och !  cchone  ! 

All  hail  to  thee,  Beinn  Eadair  !     But,  ah  !  on  thy  brow 

I  see  a  limping  soldier,  who  battled,  and  who  bled 
Last  year  in  the  cause  of  the  Stuart ;  though  now 
The  worthy  is  begging  his  bread  ! 
Och !  ochone  ! 

And  Diarmuid  !  0  Diarmuid  !  he  perished  in  the  strife ; 

His  head  it  was  spiked  on  a  halbert  high ; 
His  colors  they  were  trampled  ;  he  had  no  chance  of  life, 
If  the  Lord  God  himself  stood  by ! 
"  Och  !  ochone  ! 

But  most,  0  my  woe  !  I  lament,  and  lament 

For  the  ten  valiant  heroes  who  dwelt  nigh  the  Nore ; 
And  my  three  blessed  brothers  !  they  left  me,  and  they  went 
To  the  wars,  and  returned  no  more  ! 
Och !  ochone  ! 

On  the  bridge  of  the  Boyne  was  our  first  overthrow ; 
By  Slaney,  the  next,  for  we  battled  without  rest ; 
The  third  was  at  Aughrim.     0  Eire  !  thy  woe 
Is  a  sword  in  my  bleeding  breast  1 
Och  !  ochone  ! 

0,  the  roof  above  our  heads  it  was  barbarously  fired, 

While  the  black  Orange  guns  blazed  and  bellowed  around  ! 
And  as  volley  followed  volley,  Colonel  Mitchel  inquired 
Whether  Lucan  still  stood  his  ground. 
Och !  ochone ! 


60    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  O'Kelly  still  remains,  to  defy  and  to  toil ; 

He  has  memories  that  Hell  won't  permit  him  to  forget, 
And  a  sword  that  will  make  the  blue  blood  flow  like  oil 
Upon  many  an  Aughrim  yet  I 
Och  !  ochone ! 

And  I  never  shall  believe  that  my  Fatherland  can  fall, 
With  the  Burkes,  and  the  Dukes,  and  the  son  of  Royal 

James  ; 

And  Talbot  the  Captain,  and  Sarsfield,  above  all, 
The  beloved  of  damsels  and  dames. 
Och !  ochone ! 


BOATMAN'S  HYMN. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

All  that  is  known  of  this  spirited  ode  is  that  it  had  its  origin  on  the 
west  coast. 

BARK  that  bears  me  through  foam  and  squall, 
You  in  the  storm  are  my  castle-wall ; 
Though  the  sea  should  redden  from  bottom  to  top, 
From  tiller  to  mast  she  takes  no  drop. 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top, 

Wherry  aroon-,  my  land  and  store  I 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top, 

She  is  the  boat  can  sail  go-leor. 

She  dresses  herself,  and  goes  gliding  on, 
Like  a  dame  in  her  robes  of  the  Indian  lawn ; 
For  God  has  blessed  her,  gunnel  and  wale  : 
And  oh  !  if  you  saw  her  stretch  out  to  the  gale, 
On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 


THE  BARDS.  61 

Whillan,  ahoy  !  old  heart  of  stone, 
Stooping  so  black  o'er  the  beach  alone, 
Answer  me  well,  —  on  the  bursting  brine 
Saw  you  ever  a  bark  like  mine  1 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 

Says  Whillan,  "  Since  first  I  was  made  of  stone, 
I  have  looked  abroad  o'er  the  beach  alone  : 
But  till  to-day,  on  the  bursting  brine 
Saw  I  never  a  bark  like  thine  !  " 

On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 

"  God  of  the  air  ! "  the  seamen  shout 
When  they  see  us  tossing  the  brine  about ; 
"  Give  us  the  shelter  of  strand  or  rock, 
Or  through  and  through  us  she  goes  with  a  shock  ! " 
On  the  tide  top,  the  tide  top,  &c. 


THE   COOLUN   I. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

This  and  the  following  love  song  are  of  uncertain  date,  and  their 
authors  are  unknown.  It  is  probable  that  they  were  the  composition 
of  peasant  poets  rather  than  of  bards,  although  the  bards  may  occa- 
sionally have  dropped  into  amatory  verse.  The  Cooleen  signifies  a  head 
of  full  flowing  tresses,  and  is  a  very  common  image  in  Irish  poetry. 

HERE  dwells  the  stately  Coolun, 

The  salmon  of  the  silver  side, 
The  branch  that  blooms  the  fairest 

On  the  tall  tree  of  beauty's  pride. 
0,  my  love  she  is,  and  my  fancy, 

And  the  light  of  my  eyes  alway, 
She  's  my  summer  in  the  winter, 

From  Christmas  to  Easter  day  ! 


62    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

0  sweet,  deluding  Cupid, 

Who  art  full  of  your  proper  wiles, 
My  heart  is  in  deadly  sickness 

By  the  charm  of  her  bewitching  smiles : 
Take  pity  on  me  then,  and  tell  me, 

And  answer  quickly  give ; 
Have  you  doomed  me  to  die  rejected, 

Or  to  have  my  love  and  live  1 

And,  oh  !  fair  stately  damsel, 

On  whom  my  choice  is  set, 
Think  not  that  the  rich  ones  ever, 

Without  true  love,  were  happy  yet. 
The  God,  who,  out  of  dust  has  formed  us, 

Kind  care  of  his  own  will  take  : 
0  never,  for  the  sake  of  cattle, 

Would  I  a  truelove  forsake  ! 

My  fancy  and  my  darling, 

My  gentle  and  my  sweet  cooleen, 
To  whom  my  heart  gives  longing 

Beyond  all  girls  I  've  ever  seen ! 
Live  without  your  love,  I  cannot, 

For  I  live  in  the  love  of  thee  ; 
And  oh  !  if  you  turn  coldly  from  me, 

In  your  fair  hands  my  soul  shall  be  ! 


THE  COOLUN  II. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

0,  HAD  you  seen  the  Coolun, 

Walking  down  by  the  cuckoo's  street, 
With  the  dew  of  the  meadow  shining 

On  her  milk-white  twinkling  feet ! 


THE  BARDS.  63 

0,  my  love  she  is,  and  my  cooleen  oge, 

And  she  dwells  in  Bal'nagar ; 
And  she  bears  the  palm  of  beauty  bright 

From  the  fairest  that  in  Erin  are. 

In  Bal'nagar  is  the  Coolun, 

Like  the  berry  on  the  bough  her  cheek ; 
Bright  beauty  dwells  forever 

On  her  fair  neck  and  ringlets  sleek  : 
0,  sweeter  is  her  mouth's  soft  music 

Than  the  lark  or  thrush  at  dawn, 
Or  the  blackbird  in  the  greenwood  singing 

Farewell  to  the  setting  sun  ! 

Rise  up,  my  boy,  make  ready 

My  horse,  for  I  forth  would  ride, 
To  follow  the  modest  damsel 

Where  she  walks  on  the  green  hill-side  ; 
Forever  since  our  youth  were  we  plighted, 

In  faith,  troth,  and  wedlock  true. 
0,  she 's  sweeter  to  me  nine  times  over 

Than  organ  or  cuckoo  ! 

0,  ever  since  my  childhood 

I  loved  the  fair  and  darling  child, 
But  our  people  came  between  us, 

And  with  lucre  our  pure  love  denied  : 
0,  my  woe  it  is  and  my  bitter  pain, 

And  I  weep  it  night  and  day, 
That  the  coleen  bawji  of  my  early  love 

Is  torn  from  my  heart  away. 

Sweetheart  and  faithful  treasure, 
Be  constant  still,  and  true  j 


64        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Nor  for  want  of  herds  and  houses 

Leave  one  who  would  ne  'er  leave  you  : 

I  'd  pledge  you  the  blessed  Bible, 
Without  and  eke  within, 

That  the  faithful  God  will  provide  for  us 
Without  thanks  to  kith  or  kin ! 

0  love,  do  you  remember 

When  we  lay  all  night  alone, 
Beneath  the  ash  in  the  winter  storm, 

When  the  oak  wood  round  did  groan  1 
No  shelter  then  from  the  blast  had  we, 

The  bitter  blast  and  sleet, 
But  your  gown  to  wrap  about  our  heads, 

And  my  coat  round  our  feet. 


0   LOVED   MAID   OF  BRAKA. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  HECTOR  MACNEILL. 

The  original  of  this  is  to  be  found  in  Bunting's  collection  of  "  Ancient 
Music  of  Ireland,"  though  the  translation  is  by  a  Scotch  poet. 

0  LOVED  maid  of  Braka,  each  fair  one  excelling  ! 

The  blush  on  thy  cheek  shames  apples'  soft  blossoms, 
More  sweet  than  the  rosebuds  that  decked  thy  loved  dwell- 
ing! 

Thy  lips  shame  their  beauties,  —  thy  breath  their  perfume. 

Come,  bird  of  the  morning,  sweet  thrush,  void  of  sorrow,  — 
Come,  greet  her  approach  to  thy  flower-scented  thorn, 

And  teach  her,  fond  warbler,  thy  loved  notes  to  borrow, 
To  banish  her  coldness,  and  soften  her  scorn. 


THE  BARDS.  65 

0,  perched  on  thy  green  bough,  each  loved  mate  delighting, 
Thou  blest,  happy  bird  !  could  I  change  but  with  thee  ! 

But  alas  !  whilst  fast-fettered  each  prospect  is  blighting, 
I  would  rather  than  Ireland  again  I  were  free  ! 

But  adieu  !  though  my  hopes,  by  thy  coldness  and  scorning, 
Fall,  faded  like  blossoms  half-blown  on  the  tree, 

May  love  bless  you  ever,  though  it  blighted  my  morning, 
I  would  rather  than  Ireland  once  more  I  were  free. 


MOLLY  ASTORE. 

ASCRIBED  TO  CORMAC  O'CoN.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

The  origin  of  this  song  is  supposed  to  be  very  ancient,  and  the  air  is 
a  remarkable  favorite,  to  which  songs  have  been  written  by  Sheridan, 
Burns,  Moore,  Hon.  George  Ogle,  and  Rev.  Charles  Wolfe.  The  title 
signifies  "  Mary,  my  Treasure." 

0  MARY  dear  !  0  Mary  fair ! 

0  branch  of  generous  stem  ! 
White  blossom  of  the  banks  of  Nair, 

Though  lilies  grow  on  them ; 
You  've  left  me  sick  at  heart  for  love, 

So  faint  I  cannot  see  ; 
The  candle  swims  the  board  above, 

1  'm  drunk  for  love  of  thee  ! 
0  stately  stem  of  maiden  pride, 

My  woe  it  is  and  pain 
That  I  thus  severed  from  thy  side 
The  long  night  must  remain. 

Through  all  the  towns  of  Innisfail 
I  've  wandered  far  and  wide, 
5 


66    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  from  Downpatrick  to  Kinsale, 

From  Carlow  to  Kilbride, 
Many  lords  and  dames  of  high  degree 

Where'er  my  feet  have  gone, 
My  Mary,  one  to  equal  thee 

I  never  looked  upon  : 
I  live  in  darkness  and  in  doubt 

Whene'er  my  love  's  away ; 
But  were  the  gracious  sun  put  out, 

Her  shadow  would  make  day. 

'T  is  she,  indeed,  young  bud  of  bliss, 

And  gentle  as  she's  fair. 
Though  lily-white  her  bosom  is, 

And  sunny  bright  her  hair, 
And  dewy  azure  her  blue  eye, 

And  rosy  red  her  cheek, 
Yet  brighter  she  in  modesty, 

More  beautifully  meek ! 
The  world's  wise  men  from  north  to  south 

Can  never  cure  my  pain ; 
But  one  kiss  from  her  honey  mouth 

Would  make  me  well  again. 


CEAN   DUBH   DHEELISH.* 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

PUT  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above ; 

0  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 
Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  1 

*  Pronounced  Cawn  dhu  deelish,  Dear  black  head. 


THE  BARDS.  67 

0,  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is  pining, 

Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  wind  free,  — 
For  me,  the  foremost  of  our  gay  young  fellows,  — 

But  I  'd  .leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee  ! 
Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above ; 
0  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 

Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  1 


THE    MAID    OF   BALLYHAUNIS. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  EDWARD  WALSHE. 

MY  Mary  dear  !  for  thee  I  die, 

0,  place  thy  hand  in  mine,  love ! 
My  fathers  here  were  chieftains  high, 

Then  to  my  plaints  incline,  love. 
0  Plaited-hair  !  that  now  we  were 

In  wedlock's  band  united, 
For,  maiden  mine,  in  grief  I  '11  pine, 

Until  our  vows  are  plighted ! 

Thou  Rowan-bloom,  since  thus  I  rove, 

All  worn  and  faint  to  greet  thee, 
Come  to  these  arms,  my  constant  love, 

With  love  as  true  to  meet  me  ! 
Alas  my  head  !  —  its  wits  are  fled, 

I  've  failed  in  filial  duty. 
My  sire  did  say,  "Shun,  shun,  for  aye 

That  Ballyhaunis  beauty  !  " 

But  thy  Cuilin  ban  I  marked  one  day, 

Where  the  blooms  of  the  bean-field  cluster, 


68    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Thy  bosom  white  like  ocean's  spray, 
Thy  cheek  like  rowan-fruit's  lustre, 

Thy  tones  that  shame  the  wild  bird's  fame 
Which  sing  in  the  summer  weather ; 

And  oh !  I  sigh  that  thou,  love,  and  I 
Steal  not  from  this  world  together  ! 

If  with  thy  lover  thou  depart 

To  the  Land  of  Ships,  my  fair  love, 
No  weary  pain  of  head  or  heart 

Shall  haunt  our  slumbers  there,  love. 
0,  haste  away,  ere,  cold  death's  prey, 

My  soul  from  thee  withdrawn  is ; 
And  my  hope's  reward,  the  churchyard  sward, 

In  the  town  of  Ballyhaunis ! 


THE   FAIR-HAIRED   GIRL. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

THE  sun  has  set,  the  stars  are  still, 
The  red  moon  hides  behind  the  hill ; 
The  tide  has  left  the  brown  beach  bare, 
The  birds  have  fled  the  upper  air ; 
Upon  her  branch  the  lone  cuckoo 
Is  chanting  still  her  sad  adieu, 
And  you,  my  fair-haired  girl,  must  go 
Across  the  salt  sea  under  woe. 

I  through  love  have  learned  three  things 
Sorrow,  sin,  and  death  it  brings ! 
Yet  day  by  day  my  heart  within 
Dares  shame  and  sorrow,  death  and  sin. 


THE  BARDS.  69 


Maiden,  you  have  aimed  the  dart 
Rankling  in  my  ruined  heart ; 
Maiden,  may  the  God  above 
Grant  you  grace  to  grant  me  love  ! 

Sweeter  than  the  viol's  string, 
And  the  note  that  blackbirds  sing, 
Brighter  than  the  dewdrops  rare 
Is  the  maiden  wondrous  fair  : 
Like  the  silver  swan's  at  play 
Is  her  neck  as  bright  as  day. 
Woe  was  me  that  e'er  my  sight 
Dwelt  on  charms  so  deadly  bright ! 


PASTHEEN   FINN. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

This  is  a  popular  song  of  Connaught,  of  an  ancient  date.  The  chorus 
is  occasionally  used  by  the  bards.  Pastheen  Finn  means  Fair  Maid,  or 
Fair  Youth. 

0,  MY  fair  Pastheen  is  my  heart's  delight, 

Her  gay  heart  laughs  in  her  blue  eye  bright ; 

Like  the  apple-blossom  her  bosom  white, 

And  her  neck  like  the  swan's  on  a  March  morn  bright. 

Then  Oro,  come  with  me,  come  with  me,  come  with  me, 

Oro,  come  with  me,  brown  girl  sweet ! 

And  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl  sweet ! 

>ve  of  my  heart,  my  fair  Pastheen  ! 
Her  cheeks  are  red  as  the  roses'  sheen, 


70    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  my  lips  have  tasted  no  more,  I  ween, 

Than  the  glass  I  drank  to  the  health  of  my  queen. 

Then  Oro,  come  with  me,  come  with  me,  come  with  me, 

Oro,  come  with  me,  brown  girl  sweet ! 

And  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl  sweet ! 

Were  I  in  the  town  where  's  mirth  and  glee, 
Or  'twixt  two  barrels  of  barley  bree, 
With  my  fair  Pastheen  upon  my  knee, 
"I  is  I  would  drink  to  her  pleasantly. 

Then  Oro,  come  with  me,  come  with  me,  come  with  me, 

Oro,  come  with  me,  brown  girl  sweet ! 

And  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl  sweet ! 

Nine  nights  I  lay  in  longing  and  pain, 
Betwixt  two  bushes  beneath  the  rain, 
Thinking  to  see  you,  love,  once  again ; 
But  whistle  and  call  were  all  in  vain. 

Then  Oro,  come  with  me,  come  with  me,  come  with  me, 

Oro,  come  with  me,  brown  girl  sweet ! 

And  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl  sweet ! 

I  '11  leave  my  people,  both  friend  and  foe, 
From  all  the  girls  in  the  world  I  '11  go, 
But  from  you,  sweetheart,  0,  never,  0,  no, 
Till  I  lie  in  the  coffin,  stretched  cold  and  low ! 

Then  Oro,  come  with  me,  come  with  me,  come  with  me, 

Oro,  come  with  me,  brown  girl  sweet ! 

And  oh  !  I  would  go  through  snow  and  sleet, 

If  you  would  come  with  me,  my  brown  girl  sweet ! 


THE  BARDS.  71 

CORMAC    OGE. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  EDWARD  WALSHE. 

THE  pigeons  coo,  —  the  spring 's  approaching  now ; 
The  bloom  is  bursting  on  the  leafy  bough ; 
The  cresses  green  o'er  streams  are  clustering  low, 
And  honey-hives  with  sweets  abundant  flow. 

Rich  are  the  fruits  the  hazly  woods  display  : 

A  slender  virgin,  virtuous,  fair,  and  gay  ; 

With  steeds  and  sheep,  of  kine  a  many  score, 

By  trout-stored  Lee  whose  banks  we  '11  see  no  more. 

The  little  birds  pour  music's  sweetest  notes, 
The  calves  for  milk  distend  their  bleating  throats ; 
Above  the  weirs  the  silver  salmon  leap, 
While  Cormac  Oge  and  I  all  lonely  weep  ! 


CUSHLA  MA   CHREE. 

This  song  is  a  fragment,  of  which  both  the  name  of  the  author  and 
translator  have  been  lost. 

BEFORE  the  sun  rose  at  yester-dawn, 
I  met  a  fair  maid  adown  the  lawn : 

The  berry  and  snow 

To  her  cheek  gave  its  glow, 
And  her  bosom  was  fair  as  the  sailing  swan. 
Then,  pulse  of  my  heart !  what  gloom  is  thine  ? 


72    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OP  IRELAND. 

Her  beautiful  voice  more  hearts  hath  won 
Than  Orpheus'  lyre  of  old  had  done  j 

Her  ripe  eyes  of  blue 

Were  crystals  of  dew, 
On  the  grass  of  the  lawn  before  the  sun. 
And,  pulse  of  my  heart !  what  gloom  is  thine  1 


THE   GIEL    I   LOVE. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 

THE  girl  I  love  is  comely,  straight,  and  tall ; 

Down  her  white  neck  her  auburn  tresses  fall  \ 

Her  dress  is  neat,  her  carriage  light  and  free  :  — 

Here  's  a  health  to  that  charming  maid,  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

The  rose's  blush  but  fades  beside  her  cheek ; 

Her  eyes  are  blue,  her  forehead  pale  and  meek ; 

Her  lips  like  cherries  on  a  summer  tree  :  — 

Here 's  a  health  to  the  charming  maid,  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

When  I  go  to  the  field  no  youth  can  lighter  bound, 
And  I  freely  pay  when  the  cheerful  jug  goes  round; 
The  barrel  is  full,  but  its  heart  we  soon  shall  see  :  — 
Come,  here  's  to  that  charming  maid,  whoe'er  she  be ! 

Had  I  the  wealth  that  props  the  Saxon's  reign, 
Or  the  diamond  crown  that  decks  the  king  of  Spain, 
I  'd  yield  them  all  if  she  kindly  smiled  on  me  :  — 
Here  's  a  health  to  the  maid  I  love  whoe'er  she  be  ! 

Five  pounds  of  gold  for  each  lock  of  her  hair  I  'd  pay, 
And  five  times  five,  for  my  love  one  hour  each  day ; 
Her  voice  is  more  sweet  than  the  thrush  on  its  own  green  tree: 
0  dear  one !  I  drink  a  fond  deep  health  to  thee  ! 


THE  BARDS.  73 

THE  LAP   FULL  OF   NUTS. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

WHENE'ER  I  see  soft  hazel  eyes 

And  nut-brown  curls, 
I  think  of  those  bright  days  I  spent 

Among  the  Limerick  girls  ;  * 
When  up  through  Gratia  woods  I  went 

Nutting  with  thee, 
And  we  plucked  the  glossy  clustering  fruit 

From  many  a  bending  tree. 

Beneath  the  hazel  boughs  we  sat, 

Thou,  love,  and  I, 
And  the  gathered  nuts  lay  in  thy  lap, 

Beneath  thy  downcast  eye  : 
But  little  we  thought  of  the  store  we  'd  won, 

I,  love,  or  thou  ; 
For  our  hearts  were  full,  and  we  dare  not  own 

The  love  that 's  spoken  now. 

0,  there 's  wars  for  willing  hearts  in  Spain, 

And  high  Germanie ! 
And  I  '11  come  back  erelong  again, 

With  knightly  fame  and  fee. 
And  I  '11  come  back,  if  I  ever  come  back, 

Faithful  to  thee, 
That  sat  with  thy  white  lap  full  of  nuts, 

Beneath  the  hazel-tree. 


74        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

HOPELESS   LOVE. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

SINCE  hopeless  of  thy  love  I  go, 

Some  little  mark  of  pity  show, 

And  only  one  kind  parting  look  bestow, — 

One  parting  look  of  pity  mild 

On  him,  through  starless  tempest  wild, 

Who  lonely  hence  to-night  must  go,  exiled. 

But  even  rejected  love  can  warm 
The  heart  through  night  and  storm ; 
And  unrelenting  though  they  be, 
Thine  eyes  beam  life  on  me. 

And  I  will  bear  that  look  benign 

Within  this  darkly  troubled  breast  to  shine, 

Though  never,  never  can  thyself,  ah  me  !  be  mine. 


IRISH   LULLABY. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

The  Irish  folk-song  has  some  very  beautiful  lullabies.  The  original 
of  the  present,  which  is  supposed  to  be  of  great  antiquity,  is  from 
Bunting's  "Ancient  Music  of  Ireland."  Dr.  Petrie  calls  attention  to 
the  remarkable  resemblance  between  the  melodies  of  Irish  lullabies 
and  those  of  Eastern  nations. 

I  'LL  put  you  myself,  my  baby  !  to  slumber ; 
Not  as  is  done  by  the  clownish  number,  — 


THE  BARDS.  75 

A  yellow  blanket  and  coarse  sheet  bringing, 
But  in  golden  cradle  that's  softly  swinging 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  bonnie  baby  ! 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  own  sweet  baby ! 

I  '11  put  you  myself,  my  baby  !  to  slumber, 

On  sunniest  day  of  the  pleasant  summer  ; 

Your  golden  cradle  on  smooth  lawn  laying, 

'Neath  murmuring  boughs  that  the  winds  are  swaying 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  bonnie  baby  f 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  own  sweet  baby  ! 

Slumber,  my  babe  !  may  the  sweet  sleep  woo  you, 
And  from  your  slumbers  may  health  come  to  you ! 
May  all  diseases  now  flee  and  fear  you  ! 
May  sickness  and  sorrow  never  come  near  you ! 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  bonnie  baby  I 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  own  sweet  baby ! 

Slumber,  my  babe  !  pray  the  sweet  sleep  woo  you, 
And  from  your  slumbers  may  health  come  to  you  ! 
May  bright  dreams  come,  and  come  no  other, 
And  I  be  never  a  childless  mother  ! 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  bonuy  baby  ! 

To  and  fro,  lulla  lo, 

To  and  fro,  my  own  sweet  baby  ! 


76    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

NURSE'S    SONG. 
ANON.    LITERAL  YEKSION. 

SLEEP,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

The  sun  sleepeth  on  the  green  fields, 

The  moon  sleepeth  on  the  blue  waves, 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

The  morning  sleepeth  upon  a  bed  of  roses, 
The  evening  sleepeth  on  the  tops  of  the  dark  hills ; 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

The  winds  sleep  in  the  hollow  of  the  rocks, 
The  stars  sleep  upon  a  pillow  of  clouds ; 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

The  mist  sleepeth  on  the  bosom  of  the  valley, 
And  the  broad  lake  under  the  shade  of  the  trees ; 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

The  flower  sleeps,  while  the  night  dew  falls, 
And  the  wild-birds  sleep  upon  the  mountains ; 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

The  burning  tear  sleepeth  upon  the  cheek  of  sorrow, 
But  thy  sleep  is  not  the  sleep  of  tears ; 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 

Sleep  in  quiet,  sleep  in  joy,  my  darling, 
May  thy  sleep  never  be  the  sleep  of  sorrow  ! 
Sleep,  my  child,  my  darling  child,  my  lovely  child,  sleep ! 


THE  BARDS.  77 

GRACE   NUGENT. 

CAROLAN.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

V 

BRIGHEST  blossom  of  the  spring, 
Grace,  the  sprightly  girl  I  sing,  — 
Grace,  who  bore  the  palm  of  mind 
From  all  the  rest  of  womankind. 
Whomsoe'er  the  fates  decree, 
Happy  fate  !  for  life  to  be 
Day  and  night  my  Coolun  near, 
Ache  or  pain  need  never  fear  ! 

Her  neck  outdoes  the  stately  swan, 
Her  radiant  face  the  summer  dawn  : 
Ah  !  happy  thrice  the  youth  for  whom 
The  fates  design  that  branch  of  bloom  ! 
Pleasant  are  your  words  benign, 
Rich  those  azure  eyes  of  thine  : 
Ye  who  see  my  queen,  beware 
Those  twisted  links  of  golden  hair  ! 

This  is  what  I  fain  would  say 
To  the  bird-voiced  lady  gay,  — 
Never  yet  conceived  the  heart 
Joy  which  Grace  cannot  impart : 
Fold  of  jewels  !  case  of  pearls ! 
Coolun  of  the  circling  curls  ! 
More  I  say  not,  but  no  less 
Drink  you  health  aiid  happiness ! 


78        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

PULSE  OF    MY   HEART. 

FRAGMENT.    TRANS.  BY  Miss  CHARLOTTE  BROOKE. 

I  am  unwilling  that  there  should  not  be  a  specimen  of  the  transla- 
tion of  Miss  Brooke,  who  did  so  much  to  rescue  Irish  poetry  from 
oblivion,  although,  as  has  been  said,  her  classic  style  of  language  ob- 
scured the  local  color  and  national  distinctiveness  of  the  original.  This 
fragment  is  more  literal  than  usual. 

As  the  sweet  blackberry's  modest  bloom, 

Fair  flowering,  greets  the  sight, 
Or  strawberries  in  their  rich  perfume 

Fragrance  and  bloom  unite  : 
So  this  fair  plant  of  tender  youth 

In  outward  charms  can  vie, 
And  from  within  the  soul  of  truth, 

Soft  beaming,  fills  her  eye. 

Pulse  of  my  heart !  dear  source  of  care, 

Stolen  sighs,  and  love-breathed  vows  ! 
Sweeter  than  when  through  scented  air 

Gay  bloom  the  apple  boughs ! 
With  thee  no  day  can  winter  seem, 

Nor  frost  nor  blast  can  chill ; 
Thou  the  soft  breeze,  the  cheering  beam, 

That  keeps  it  summer  still. 


THE  BARDS.  79 

ODE   TO    THE  MINSTREL   O'CONNELLAN. 

ANON.    CIRCA  1665. 

O'Connellan  was  an  Irish  bard,  who  received  the  title  of  "the  Great 
Harper,"  and  this  tribute  to  his  genius  is  by  an  unknown  admirer. 
There  are  two  or  three  versions  of  this  beautiful  ode. 

WHEREVER  harp-note  ringeth 

lerne's  isle  around, 
Thy  hand  its  sweetness  flingeth, 

Surpassing  mortal  sound. 
Thy  spirit-music  speaketh 

Above  the  minstrel  throng, 
And  thy  rival  vainly  seeketh 

The  secret  of  thy  song ! 

In  the  castle,  in  the  shieling, 

In  foreign  kingly  hall, 
Thou  art  master  of  each  feeling, 

And  honored  first  of  all ! 
Thy  wild  and  wizard  finger 

Sweepeth  chords  unknown  to  art, 
And  melodies  that  linger 

In  the  memory  of  the  heart ! 

Though  fairy  music  slumbers 

By  forest,  glade,  and  hill, 
In  thy  unearthly  numbers 

Men  say 't  is  living  still ! 
All  its  compass  of  wild  sweetness 

Thy  master  hand  obeys, 
As  its  airy  fitful  fleetness 

O'er  harp  and  heart-string  plays  ! 


80    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

By  thee  the  thrill  of  anguish 

Is  softly  lulled  to  rest, 
By  thee  the  hopes  that  languish 

Rekindled  in  the  breast : 
Thy  spirit  chaseth  sorrow 

Like  morning  mists  away, 
And  gaily  robes  to-morrow 

In  the  gladness  of  thy  lay  ! 


THE  CUP   OF   O'HARA. 

CAROLAN.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

WERE  I  west  in  green  Arran, 

Or  south  in  Glanmore, 
Where  the  long  ships  come  laden 

With  claret  in  store ; 
Yet  I  'd  rather  than  shiploads 

Of  claret,  and  ships, 
Have  your  white  cup,  O'Hara, 

Up  full  at  my  lips. 

But  why  seek  in  numbers 

Its  virtues  to  tell, 
When  O'Hara's  own  chaplain 

Has  said,  saying  well,  — 
"  Turlogh,  bold  son  of  Brian, 

Sit  ye  down,  boy,  again, 
Till  we  drain  the  great  cupaun 

In  another  health  to  Keane.'; 


THE  BARDS.  81 

MILD   MABEL   KELLY. 

CAROLAN.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

WHOEVER  the  youth  who  by  Heaven's  decree 
Has  his  happy  right  hand  'neath  that  bright  head  of  thine, 
'T  is  certain  that  he 
From  all  sorrow  is  free 
Till  the  day  of  his  death,  if  a  life  so  divine 
Should  not  raise  him  in  bliss  above  mortal  degree  : 
Mild  Mabel-ni-Kelly,  bright  Coolun  of  curls, 

All  stately  and  pure  as  the  swan  on  the  lake ; 
Her  mouth  of  white  teeth  is  a  palace  of  pearls, 

And  the  youth  of  the  land  are  lovesick  for  her  sake ! 

No  strain  of  the  sweetest  e'er  heard  in  the  land 
That  she  knows  not  to  sing,  in  a  voice  so  enchanting, 
That  the  cranes  on  the  strand 
Fall  asleep  where  they  stand. 

0,  for  her  blooms  the  rose,  and  the  lily  ne'er  wanting 
To  shed  its  mild  radiance  o'er  bosom  or  hand  ! 
The  dewy  blue  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  spray 

More  blue  than  her  eye  human  eye  never  saw, 
Deceit  never  lurked  in  its  beautiful  ray,  — 

Dear  lady,  I  drink  to  you,  slainte  go  bragh  ! 


82    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

GENTLE  BRIDEEN. 
CAROLAN.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

FAIR  Brideen  O'Malley,  thou  'st  left  me  in  sadness, 
My  bosom  is  pierced  with  love's  arrow  so  keen, 

For  thy  mien  it  is  graceful,  thy  glances  are  gladness, 
And  thousands  thy  lovers,  0  gentle  Brideen  ! 

The  gray  mists  of  morning  in  autumn  were  fleeting, 
When  I  met  the  bright  darling —  down  in  the  boreen,* 

Her  words  were  unkind,  but  I  soon  won  a  greeting : 
Sweet  kisses  I  stole  from  the  lips  of  Brideen ! 

0,  fair  is  the  sun  in  the  dawning  all  tender, 
And  beauteous  the  roses  beneath  it  are  seen ; 

Thy  cheek  is  the  red  rose,  thy  brow  the  sun  splendor  ! 
And,  cluster  of  ringlets,  my  dawn  is  Brideen ! 

Then  shine,  0  bright  sun,  on  thy  constant,  true  lover, 
Then  shine,  once  again,  in  the  leafy  boreen, 

And  the  clouds  shall  depart  that  around  my  heart  hover, 
And  we  '11  walk  amid  gladness,  my  gentle  Brideen  ! 

*  Boreen,  green  lane. 


THE   HEDGE   POETS. 

IF,  by  way  of  historical  description,  it  is  said  that  Carolan 
was  the  last  of  the  Irish  bards,  it  is  because  he  was 
superior  in  the  distinction  in  which  he  was  held,  and  the 
society  before  whom  he  appeared,  rather  than  in  genius  or 
the  character  of  his  songs,  to  some  of  his  successors,  who  as 
a  class  may  be  designated  the  "  Hedge  Poets,"  and  who  sang 
in  the  same  language.  The  date  of  his  death,  1737,  how- 
ever, furnishes  a  convenient  point  of  separation  between  the 
bards  and  their  successors  of  less  lofty  title,  who  may  be 
roughly  said  to  have  existed  for  about  another  century,  al- 
though versifiers  in  Irish  continued  for  some  time  longer, 
and  may  perhaps  still  be  found.  It  was  the  period  of  the 
deepest  misfortune  of  the  Celtic  race.  They  were  thoroughly 
crushed  and  conquered.  The  deepest  poverty  reigned  among 
the  peasantry,  from  the  scandalous  neglect  of  absentee  land- 
lords and  the  boisterous  dissipation  and  mismanagement  of 
those  who  remained  resident,  the  jealousy  of  English  mer- 
chants and  manufacturers,  which  imposed  every  disability 
upon  trade  and  industry  in  Ireland,  and  the  mutual  ani- 
mosity that  existed  between  the  races  on  account  of  religious 
and  political  differences.  The  Protestant  ascendency  was  in 
full  force  and  vigor  during  the  greater  part  of  this  period,  and 
made  itself  manifest  in  the  penal  laws,  which  were  excessively 
harsh  and  degrading.  By  them  priests  were  proscribed,  and 
a  price  put  upon  their  heads  after  contumacy  in  remaining  in 


84    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

the  country.  Catholic  instruction  was  prohibited  at  home, 
and  severe  penalties  were  fixed  against  sending  children  to 
be  educated  in  Catholic  seminaries  abroad;  while  at  the 
same  time  no  provision  was  made  for  schools  at  home,  the 
act  of  the  Parliament  of  1674  directing  that  a  free  school 
should  be  maintained  in  every  parish  being  but  a  scandalous 
dead  letter.* 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  Celtic  people  submitted 
entirely  to  the  deprivation  of  religion  or  education.  Priests 
continued  to  minister  among  them  at  the  risk  of  prison  or 
of  life,  and  even  the  hierarchy  remained  unbroken.  Children 
continued  to  be  sent  abroad  to  be  educated  in  Catholic  schools 
or  for  the  priesthood,  and  the  hedge  school  came  into  being. 
The  severity  of  persecution  became  gradually  relaxed,  as 
was  inevitable  among  a  people  where  the  proscribed  class 
was  the  most  numerous,  and  where  the  ties  of  neighborly 
relationship  could  not  but  be  established ;  and  although  the 
priests  were  kept  longer  under  the  ban,  the  schoolmasters 
and  their  hedge  seminaries  were  left  undisturbed. 

The  name  of  hedge  school  is  descriptive,  the  school  being 
literally  under  the  hedge  in  pleasant  weather,  while  on  cold 
or  rainy  days  it  was  transferred  to  a  turf-built  cabin,  par- 
tially hollowed  within  a  bank,  where  one  was  available. 
These  were  built  by  the  people  themselves,  and  the  teachers 
were  maintained  by  payments  in  turf  and  potatoes,  and  such 
supplies  in  food  and  drink  as  the  district  afforded.  The 
avidity  of  the  Irish  race  for  education  was  very  strikingly 
evinced  during  this  period,  and  a  devotion  to  learning  was 
displayed  very  remarkable  under  the  circumstances. 

The  hedge  school  has  been  many  times  sketched  as  it  ex- 
isted in  our  own  time,  with  its  magisterial  and  ludicrously 
consequential  pedagogue,  with  a  perfect  confidence  that  his 
own  stock  of  learning  comprised  all  that  there  was  of  human 

*  Froude's  "  English  in  Ireland." 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  85 

knowledge,  and  his  fondness  for  sesquipedalian  English  words, 
of  whose  meaning  he  was  not  absolutely  certain,  and  the 
rows  of  ragged,  disorderly,  and  bright-faced  urchins ;  and 
one  traveller  gives  an  account  of  a  school  in  a  churchyard, 
where  the  pupils  were  using  the  headstones  for  the  slates 
which  they  were  unable  to  provide  for  themselves.*  The 
quickness  of  the  Irish  race  in  learning  the  languages  has 
been  noted  by  Thackeray  f  and  others ;  and  there  are  many 
stories  of  ragged  youth  disputing  over  their  Latin  and  Greek 
to  the  wonderment  of  educated  tourists.  The  surreptitious 
and  narrowed  education,  thus  obtained  and  transmitted,  ne- 
cessarily deprived  it  in  a  great  measure  of  practical  value. 
The  schoolmasters  were  much  more  accomplished  in  the 
classics  than  in  science,  and  taught  their  pupils  to  scan 
more  assiduously  than  to  add.  Their  teachings  of  history 
were  much  more  concerning  the  exploits  of  Con  of  the  Hun- 
dred Battles  and  Brian  Boru,  than  of  the  victories  of  Marl- 
borough  and  Wolfe,  or  the  administrations  of  Walpole  and 
Chatham,  their  contemporaries.  This  was  but  natural. 
They  had  little  interest  in  and  little  means  of  obtaining  a 
knowledge  of  English  literature  ;  and  their  learning  was 
chiefly  of  Irish  tradition,  with  a  foreign  tincture  from  French 
Jesuit  seminaries.  Poetry  was  cultivated  and  esteemed  in 
direct  descent  from  the  earliest  times,  and  the  schoolmasters 
were  in  a  great  measure  the  poets. 

There  is  scarcely  one  of  the  Irish  poets  of  this  period, 
whose  name  has  survived,  who  was  not  at  one  time  or  another 
a  schoolmaster,  and  there  is  a  singular  sameness  about  their 
personal  histories.  Some  of  the  most  prominent  had  been 
sent  abroad  to  be  educated  for  the  priesthood,  as  it  was 
natural  that  a  bright  youth  should  be,  and  as  it  is  now  the 
highest  ambition  of  a  peasant  to  have  a  son  at  Maynooth ; 

*  Sketches  of  the  Native  Irish,  by  Christopher  Anderson, 
t  Irish  Sketch  Book. 


86    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

but  by  some  escapade,  or  from  an  irreclaimably  mercurial 
disposition,  the  church  doors  were  shut  upon  them,  and  they 
became  roving  schoolmasters,  wandering  about  the  country 
in  convivial  improvidence,  the  fact  that  a  schoolmaster  was 
given  to  drink  being  held  to  be  rather  a  proof  of  genius  than 
otherwise.1*  But  whether  backsliders  from  the  priesthood 
or  not,  they  were  of  the  same  class,  the  privileged  and  ad- 
mired of  the  peasant's  hearth  as  the  bards  had  been  of 
baronial  halls,  the  satirists  of  the  mean  and  niggardly,  the 
minstrels  of  the  charms  of  the  rustic  beauties,  and  the  pre- 
servers of  the  national  spirit  in  song,  while  in  personal 
attributes  they  were  generally  improvident  vagabonds,  with 
irreclaimable  Bohemian  instincts. 

Of  this  sort  was  Donogh  MacNamara,  or  Con  Mara,  whose 
life  may  be  taken  as  typical  of  those  of  his  associates.  He 
was  a  native  of  Cratloe,  in  the  county  of  Clare,  and  of  good 
family.  He  first  attracted  attention  in  Waterford,  where  he 
made  his  appearance  in  1738,  on  his  way  home  from  the 
foreign  college  where  he  had  been  sent  to  be  educated  for 
the  priesthood,  and  from  which  he  had  been  expelled  on 
account  of  some  escapade.  He  set  up  a  partnership  with 
one  William  Moran  in  writing  poetry  and  keeping  school, 
until,  having  offended  a  young  woman  of  the  neighborhood 
with  a  satire  on  her  frailties,  she  demolished  the  school- 
house  one  night ;  and,  as  it  did  not  seem  to  have  occurred 
to  them  to  rebuild,  they  separated.  MacNamara  kept  school 
in  various  places  in  the  counties  of  Waterford  and  Cork, 
and  finally  persuaded  his  neighbors  to  fit  him  out  for  a 
voyage  to  Newfoundland.  The  vessel  was  chased  by  a 
French  frigate,  and  obliged  to  put  back  into  the  harbor  of 
Youghall,  whence  MacNamara  returned  to  his  old  place.  In 
memory  of  this  disastrous  voyage,  he  composed  a  mock 
^Eneid,  where  not  only  is  there  a  close  parody  of  Virgil,  but 

*  Carleton's  Tales  and  Stories  of  the  Irish  Peasantry. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  87 

really  something  of  a  classic  style  of  humor.     This  descrip- 
tion of  the  shout  of  Charon  is  a  characteristic  specimen  :  — 

"  He  lifted  up  his  voice  ;  he  raised  a  howl  and  yell 
That  shook  the  firmament,  as  from  some  vast  bell 
Awakened  one  grand  peal,  that  roused  the  depths  of  hell." 

He  finally  did,  however,  cross  the  Atlantic  twice,  and 
returned  to  continue  teaching  and  writing  poetry,  until  he 
became  blind  in  advanced  age,  and  was  supported  by  his 
brother  schoolmasters,  who  levied  a  rate  in  aid  on  their  pupils 
for  his  benefit.  He  died  about  1814.  Of  a  similar  charac- 
ter were  Owen  Roe  O'Sullivan ;  Andrew  Magrath,  called  the 
Mangaire  Soogah,  or  "  Jolly  Merchant " ;  John  O'Tuomy,. 
the  "  Gay  "  ;  John  Clarach  MacDonnell,  who  proposed  to 
translate  the  Iliad  into  Celtic ;  *  and  many  others,  of  whom 
there  is  less  definite  detail. 

The  greater  portion  of  the  poetry  of  this  period  is  of  the~ 
ajlegorical  cast,  in  which  the  country  is  personified  under 
various  names,  and  there  is  a  remarkable  degree  of  sameness 
in  the  language  and  illustrations.  The  poet  in  a  vision  sees 
a  queenly  maiden  of  exquisite  beauty  and  grace  sitting  lonely 
and  weeping  on  some  fairy  rath  by  moonlight,  by  the  side 
of  a  softly  flowing  stream,  or  by  the  wall  of  some  ruined 
castle  of  ancient  splendor.  He  is  at  first  confounded  by  her 
beauty.  Then  he  takes  courage  at  her  distress,  and  asks  if 
she  is  Helen,  who  caused  Troy  town  to  burn,  Venus,  the 
bright  goddess,  or  she  that  was  the  love  of  Fion  or  Deirdre, 
for  whom  the  sons  of  Usnach  died.  These  are  the  types  of 
beauty  almost  invariably  used,  and  show  the  confused  inter- 
mingling of  classical  mythology  with  Irish  tradition.  The 
lady  replies,  in  a  voice  that  "  pierces  the  heart  like  a  spear," 
that  she  is  neither,  but  Kathleen  ni  Ullachan,  or  Grainne 
Maol,  or  Roisin  Dubh,  the  Little  Black  Rose,  or  Sheela  na 

*  Since  done  in  part  by  Archbishop  MacHale  of  Tuam. 


88    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Guira,  or  some  other  of  the  long  list  of  figurative  names  for 
Ireland.  She  laments  that  her  heroes  brave  are  driven 
across  the  seas,  and  that  she  is  the  desolate  slave  of  the 
Saxon  churls.  Then  she  rises  into  a  strain  of  hope  and 
exultation,  declaring  that  they  will  soon  return  with  help 
from  the  hosts  of  France  and  Spain ;  that  the  fires  of  the 
Saxon  houses  shall  light  every  glen,  and  the  "  sullen  tribe 
of  the  dreary  tongue  "  be  driven  into  the  sea ;  that  God 
shall  soon  be  worshipped  once  more  on  her  desolate  altars, 
and  the  kingly  hero,  her  noble  spouse,  the  prince  of  war, 
shall  once  more  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and  place  three  crowns 
upon  her  head. 

This  is  the  outline  of  almost  every  one  of  these  patriotic 
visions,  and  it  will  be  seen  at  once  how  beautiful  was  the 
conception,  and  how  capable  of  exhibiting  a  deep  pathos. 
The  Irish  minstrels  of  this  age  had  to  sing  of  their  country 
in  secret,  and  in  this  disguise  they  gave  voice  to  their  patri- 
otic passion  as  to  an  earthly  mistress,  thus  giving  to  their 
imagery  a  double  intensity  and  beauty.  This  personifying  of 
the  country  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  and  desolate  woman 
is  not  peculiar  to  the  Irish  poets,  but  seems  the  form  of  ex- 
pression for  the  passionate  patriotism  of  all  oppressed  and 
unfortunate  countries.  It  is  particularly  common  to  the 
Polish  and  Servian  poets.  But  little  reference  is  made  to 
the  heir  of  the  Stuarts  with  any  directness.  He  is  some- 
times called  "the  merchant's  son,"  "the  blackbird,"  "the 
fair-haired  youth,"  but  the  coming  hero  is  rather  some  in- 
definite Irish  leader  than  the  Pretender,  so  far  as  can  be 
judged  by  the  vague  allusions,  and  there  is  little  of  that 
direct  personality  of  loyalty  visible  in  the  Scotch  Jacobite 
songs. 

In  the  descriptions  of  the  beauty  of  the  forlorn  queen 
one  poem  bears  great  resemblance  to  another,  and  the  beau- 
ties peculiar  to  Irish  maidens  are  her  distinguishing  features. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  89 

Thus  the  abundant  tresses  of  hair,  the  cooleen,  are  often  very 
beautifully  painted. 

"  Her  yellow  hair  streaming, 

Soft,  curling,  and  free, 
Like  liquid  gold  gleaming 
Is  beauteous  to  see." 

The  Gentle  Maiden,  by  PATRICK  CONNOR. 

"  Her  hair  o'er  her  shoulders  was  flowing 

In  clusters  all  golden  and  glowing, 
Luxuriant  and  thick  as  in  meads  are  the  grass  blades 
That  the  scythe  of  the  mower  is  mowing." 

The  Vision  of  Connor  Sullivan. 

"  Sun  bright  is  the  neck  that  her  golden  locks  cover." 

The  pure  brow,  like  wax  in  fairness  and  radiance,  is  not 
forgotten. 

"  Whose  brow  is  more  fair  than  the  silver  bright ; 
O,  't  would  shed  a  ray  of  beauteous  light 

In  the  darkest  glen  of  mists  of  the  south." 

The  Melodious  Little  Cuckoo. 

Narrow  eyebrows  finely  arched  were  a  distinction,  and 
"  pencilled  eyebrows  "  are  frequently  alluded  to.  For  the 
eyes  there  is  almost  a  whole  new  nomenclature  of  compari- 
son and  compliment.  The  peculiar  and  often-repeated  epithet 
is  green,  which  is  the  uncompromising  English  translation, 
of  the  Irish  word  meaning 

"  The  grayest  of  things  blue, 
The  greenest  of  things  gray,"  — 

that  shade  of  beautiful  and  brilliant  eyes,  well  known  to 
Spanish  as  to  Irish  poets,  seen  by  Dante  in  those  of  Bea- 
trice,* and  which  Longfellow  and  Swinburne  have  not  hesi- 

*  Purgatorio  XXVI. 


90    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OP  IRELAND. 

tated  to  describe  by  the  naked  and  imperfect  English 
adjective.  This  is  the  way  in  which  one  of  the  minstrels 
expresses  what  he  means,  and  renders  it  with  a  new  grace  :  — 

"  With  your  soft  green  eyes  like  dewdrops  on  corn  that  is  spring- 
ing* 

With  the  music  of  your  red  lips  like  sweet  starlings  singing." 

Fair  Mary  Barry. 

A  beautiful  and  apt  comparison  for  the  rosy  bloom  of  the 
cheeks  is  the  apple-blossom  and  the  berry. 

"  On  her  cheek  the  crimson  berry 

Lay  in  the  lily's  bosom  warm." 

Sheela  ni  Cullenan. 

<l  The  bloom  on  thy  cheek  shames  the  apple's  soft  blossom." 
The  finest  and  most  delicate  comparison,  however,  is  this  :  — 

"  Like  crimson  rays  of  sunset  streaming 
O'er  sunny  lilies  her  bright  cheeks  shone." 

An  Buchail  Bawn,  by  JOHN  COLLINS. 

The  fair  one's  bosom  is  declared  to  be  like  the  breast  of 
the  sailing  swan,  to  the  thorn-blossom,  to  the  snow,  and  to 
the  summer  cloud,  in  a  variety  of  beautiful  expressions. 

"  Her  bosom's  pearly  light,     • 

Than  summer  clouds  more  bright, 
More  pure  in  its  glow  than  the  falling  snow, 

Or  swan  of  plumage  white." 

Beside  the  Lee,  by  MICHAEL  O'LoNGEN. 

"  Her  heart  has  the  whiteness 
That  thorn-blossoms  bore." 

Her  hands  are  pure  and  white  as  the  snow,  and  accom- 
plished in  the  art  of  embroidery.  In  very  many  of  the 
poems  of  this  kind,  the  skill  of  the  heroine  in  this  particular 
is  mentioned. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  91 

"  Her  soft  queenly  fingers 

Are  skilful  as  fair, 
While  she  gracefully  lingers 

O'er  broideries  rare. 
The  swan  and  the  heath-hen, 

Bird,  blossom,  and  leaf, 
Are  shaped  by  this  sweet  maid, 

Who  left  me  in  grief." 

The  voice  was  that  of  the  thrush  singing  farewell  to  the 
setting  sun,  the  cuckoo  in  the  glen,  or  the  lark  high  in  air. 
Bird-voiced  was  the  universal  epithet.  The  branch  of  bloom, 
the  bough  of  apple-blossoms,  was  the  whole  lovely  creature. 

These  allegorical  poems  form  much  the  greater  portion  of 
the  remains  of  the  hedge  poets,  but  there  are  others  devoted 
to  love,  satire,  and  lamentation.  There  are  some  which  are 
a  sort  of  dialogue  and  courtship  in  rhyme.  The  poet  ad- 
dresses the  damsel  with  all  the  arts  of  his  flattering  tongue. 
He  calls  her  by  every  sweet  name  he  can  think  of,  tells  how 
deep  is  his  passion,  and  how  renowned  he  will  make  her  by 
his  verse.  The  rustic  coquette  replies  with  a  recapitulation 
of  all  his  faults  and  failings,  his  poverty,  his  fondness  for 
drink,  his  disgrace  with  all  his  decent  relations,  and  bis  gen- 
eral unfitness  for  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  —  and  then  goes 
away  with  him ;  or  else  she  listens  to  his  string  of  endear- 
ments without  a  word,  and  then  dismisses  him  with  stinging 
contempt.  Sometimes  the  lover  sits  down  disconsolately, 
generally  in  a  tap-room  over  an  empty  glass,  and  details  the 
charms  of  the  fair  one,  who  has  wrought  his  woe.  Some- 
times, although  very  rarely,  it  is  one  of  the  opposite  sex 
who  has  been  driven  from  her  home,  by  the  curses  of  her 
kindred,  and,  sitting  by  the  roadside,  tells  her  tale  of  woe 
and  despair.  Such  poems  are  very  infrequent,  however,  and 
the  general  purity  of  both  theme  and  verse  are  remark- 
able. 


92    THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IEELAND. 

The  number  of  lamentations  that  have  been  preserved  is 
not  so  large  as  might  be  expected,  when  the  extemporaneous 
mourning  of  the  keener  reached  such  a  height  of  fervid  elo- 
quence. The  romantic  love  tales  are  also  few  in  comparison 
with  the  number  among  the  street  ballads  of  to-day.  The 
rich  young  nobleman,  who  falls  in  love  with  the  pretty  girl 
milking  the  cow,  or  the  fair  lady  of  great  estate,  who  picks 
out  a  lover  from  the  tall  young  men  in  her  own  service, 
make  but  few  appearances.  As  a  whole,  they  are  marked 
by  uncommon  refinement,  delicacy,  and  pathos,  and  their 
chief  faults  are  a  confusion  of  classical  imagery  and  imita- 
tiveness  of  each  other.  If  circumstances  had  been  favorable 
to  their  preservation,  and  they  had  been  written  in  a  lan- 
guage that  did  not  require  translation,  the  native  poetry  of 
Ireland  of  this  period  would  have  rivalled  in  quantity  and 
quality  even  the  richness  and  abundance  of  the  Scotch. 
Much,  however,  has  been  lost,  and  of  that  which  remains 
but  a  small  portion  has  received  a  thoroughly  worthy  Eng- 
lish dress. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  93 


THE   FAIR  HILLS   OF   EIRE   0! 

DONOGH    MACNAMARA.      TKANS.    BY   J.    C.    MANGAN. 

TAKE  a  blessing  from  my  heart  to  the  land  of  my  birth, 

And  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
To  all  that  yet  survive  of  Eire's  tribe  on  earth 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
In  that  land  so  delightful  the  wild  thrush's  lay 
Seems  to  pour  a  lament  forth  for  Eire's  decay. 
Alas !  alas  !  why  pine  I  a  thousand  miles  away 

From  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0 1 

The  soil  is  rich  and  soft,  the  air  is  mild  and  bland, 

Of  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
Her  barest  rock  is  greener  to  me  than  this  rude  land. 

0  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 

Her  woods  are  tall  and  straight,  grove  rising  over  grove, 
Trees  flourish  in  her  glens  below,  and  on  her  heights  above, 
0,  in  heart  and  in  soul  I  shall  ever,  ever  love 

The  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 

A  noble  tribe,  moreover,  are  now  the  hapless  Gael, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
A  tribe  in  battle's  hour  unused  to  shrink  or  fail, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
For  this  is  my  lament  in  bitterness  outpoured, 
To  see  them  slain  or  scattered  by  the  Saxon  sword. 
0  woe  of  woes  !  to  see  a  foreign  spoiler  horde 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  I 


94        THE  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

\ 

Broad  and  tall  rise  the  cruachs  *  in  the  golden  morning's  glow 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  O  ! 
O'er  her  smooth  grass  forever  sweet  cream  and  honey  flow 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0 ! 
Oh  !  I  long,  I  am  pining  again  to  behold 
The  land  that  belongs  to  the  brave  Gael  of  old  j 
Far  dearer  to  me  than  a  gift  of  gems  and  gold 

Are  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 

The  dewdrops  lie  bright,  'mid  the  grass  and  yellow  corn, 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
The  sweet-scented  apples  blush  redly  in  the  morn 

.On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
The  water-cress  and  sorrel  fill  the  vales  below ; 
The  streamlets  are  hushed  till  the  evening  breezes  blow ; 
While  the  waves  of  the  Suir,  noble  river,  ever  flow 

Near  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 

A  fruitful  clime  is  Eire's,  through  valley,  meadow,  plain, 

And  the  fair  land  of  Eire  0  ! 
The  very  head  of  life  is  in  the  yellow  grain 

On  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 
Far  dearer  unto  me  than  the  tones  music  yields 
Is  the  lowing  of  the  kine  and  the  calves  in  her  fields, 
And  the  sunlight  that  shone  long  ago  on  the  shields 

Of  the  Gaels,  on  the  fair  hills  of  Eire  0  ! 

*  Conical  heaps  of  stone,  supposed  to  be  Druidical  monuments. 


THE  HEDQE  POETS.  95 

THE   FAIR   HILLS   OF   IRELAND. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

This  is  another  song  of  the  same  title  and  imagery  as  will  be  fre- 
quently found  among  the  hedge  poets.  It  is  considered  to  be  of  older 
date  than  the  preceding  one. 

A  PLENTEOUS  place  is  Ireland  for  hospitable  cheer. 

Uileacan  dubh  Of* 
Where  the  wholesome  fruit  is  bursting  from  the  yellow  barley 

ear. 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

There  is  honey  in  the  trees,  where  her  misty  vales  expand, 
And  her  forest  paths  in  summer  are  by  falling  waters  fanned ; 
There  is  dew  at  high  noontide  there,  and  springs  i'  the  yel- 
low sand 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Curled  is  he  and  ringleted  and  plaited  to  the  knee, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 
Each  captain  who  comes  sailing  across  the  Irish  Sea, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

And  I  will  make  my  journey,  if  life  and  health  but  stand, 
Unto  that  pleasant  country,  that  fresh  and  fragrant  strand, 
And  leave  your  boasted  braveries,  your  wealth  and  high 

command, 
For  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 

Large  and  profitable  are  the  stacks  upon  the  ground, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  f 
The  butter  and  the  cheese  do  wondrously  abound, 

Uileacan  dubh  0  ! 

*  Uileacan  dubh  0  !  round,  black  head. 


96    THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  cresses  on  the  water,  and  the  sorrels  on  the  land, 
And  the  cuckoo  's  calling  daily  his  note  of  music  bland, 
And  the  bold  thrush  sings  so  bravely  his  song  i'  the  forests 

grand, 
On  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ireland. 


A  LAMENT   FOR   THE  FENIANS. 
JOHN  O'TuoMY.    TRANS.  BY  J.  C.  MANGAN. 

O'Tuomy,  called  the  "Gay,"  was  a  resident  in  Limerick,  contempo- 
rary in  life  and  similar  in  character  to  MacNamara.  The  poem  shows 
the  strength  of  the  traditions  that  had  descended  from  the  Ossianic 
era. 

IT  makes  my  grief,  my  bitter  woe, 

To  think  how  lie  our  nobles  low, 

Without  sweet  music,  bards,  or  lays, 

Without  esteem,  regard,  or  praise. 
0,  my  peace  of  soul  is  fled  ! 
I  lie  outstretched,  like  one  half  dead, 
To  see  our  chieftains  old  and  young 
Thus  trod  by  the  churls  of  the  dismal  tongue  ! 

Oh  !  who  can  well  refrain  from  tears, 
Who  sees  the  hosts  of  a  thousand  years 
Expelled  from  this,  their  own  green  isle, 
And  bondsmen  to  the  base  and  vile  1 

Here  dwelt  the  race  of  Owen  of  old, 
The  great,  the  proud,  the  strong,  the  bold, 
The  pure  in  speech,  the  bright  in  face, 
The  noblest  house  of  the  Fenian  race. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  97 

Here  dwelt  Mac  Cuil  of  the  flaxen  locks, 
And  his  bands,  the  first  in  battle's  shocks ; 
Dubhlaing,  Mac  Duinn  of  the  smiting  swords, 
And  Coillte,  first  of  heroic  lords. 

i  The  Goll,  who  forced  all  foes  to  yield, 

And  Osgur,  mighty  on  battle-field, 
And  Conall,  too,  who  ne'er  knew  fear,  — 
They,  not  the  stranger,  then  dwelt  here. 

Here  dwelt  the  race  of  Ever  and  Ir, 
The  heroes  of  the  dark  blue  spear ; 
The  royal  tribe  of  Heremon,  too, 
That  king  who  fostered  champions  true. 

And  Nial,  the  great,  of  the  silken  gear, 

For  a  season  bore  the  sceptre  here, 

With  the  red  branch  knights,  who  felled  the  foe 

As  lightning  lays  the  oak-tree  low. 

The  warrior  Brian,  of  the  Fenian  race, 

In  soul  and  shape  all  truth  and  grace, 

Whose  laws  the  princes  yet  revere, 

Who  banished  the  Danes,  —  he,  too,  dwelt  here. 

Alas  !  it  has  pierced  mine  inmost  heart, 
That  Christ  allowed  our  crown  to  depart 
To  men  who  defile  his  holy  word, 
And  scorn  the  Cross,  the  Church,  the  Lord. 
0,  my  peace  of  soul  is  fled  !' 
I  lie  outstretched,  like  one  half  dead, 
To  see  our  chieftains  old  and  young 
Thus  trod  by  the  churls  of  the  dismal  tongue  ! 
7 


98        THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

THE   CRUEL,    BASE-BORN   TYRANT. 

JOHN  CLARACH  MAODONNELL.    TRANS.  BY  EDWARD  WALSHE. 

p 

John  Clarach  MacDonnell,  the  author  of  many  Jacobite  poems,  was 
born  in  the  County  Clare  in  1691,  and  was  distinguished  among  his  fel- 
lows, having  presided  at  a  bardic  session  of  the  hedge  poets  held  at 
Charleville  in  the  early  part  of  the  present  century. 

WHAT  withered  the  pride  of  my  vigor  1 

The  lowly  sprung  tyrant  train 
That  rule  all  our  border  with  rigor, 

And  ravage  the  fruitful  plain. 
Yet  once,  when  the  war  trumpet's  rattle 

Aroused  the  wild  clansmen's  wrath, 
They,  heartless,  abandoned  the  battle, 

And  fled  the  fierce  foemen's  path. 

The  loved  ones  my  life  would  have  nourished 

Are  foodless,  and  bare,  and  cold ; 
My  flocks,  by  their  fountain  that  flourished, 

Decay  on  the  mountain  wold. 
Misfortune  my  temper  is  trying, 

This  raiment  no  shelter  yields ; 
And  chief  o'er  my  evils  undying 

The  tyrant  that  rules  my  fields. 

Alas !  on  the  red  hill  where  perished 

The  offspring  of  heroes  proud, 
The  virtues  our  forefathers  cherished 

Lie  palled  in  their  blood-stained  shroud. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  99 

And  0  for  one  hero  avenger, 

With  aid  o'er  the  heaving  main, 
To  sweep  from  Clar  Folia  *  the  stranger, 

And  sever  his  bondage-chain  ! 


HERE'S  A  BUMPER   TO  PHILIP. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

Ho,  friends  !  grasp  your  glasses  and  fill  up 

Your  bumpers,  —  fill  up  to  the  brim ! 
Here 's  a  health  to  the  gallant  King  Philip,  f 

And  our  Exile,  J  —  success,  boys,  to  him  ! 
In  sorrow  too  long  he  has  wandered,  — 

To  tell  him  our  axes  are  bright, 
That  we  're  burning  to  raise  the  green  standard, 

I  sail,  boys,  for  Paris  to-night ! 

Red  woe  to  the  foul  foreign  lover 

Of  Eriun,  our  beautiful  queen, 
The  betrothed  of  the  brave,  nameless  rover, 

Whose  soul  is  grief-darkened  I  ween. 
There  's  a  scourge  for  the  temple-profaners, 

The  foe  shall  not  stand  on  our  shore, 
When  free  we  '11  decree  that  regainers, 

The  priests,  have  their  abbeys  once  more. 

We  pray  to  the  Lord  of  all  glory 

To  unsheathe  his  bright  sword  o'er  our  soil, 

*  Clar  Folia,  or  the  Folia's  plain,  one  of  the  many  names  of  Ireland. 
Folia  was  one  of  the  three  traditionary  queens  of  Ireland,  Eire  and  Banba 
being  the  other  two. 

t  Philip  IV.  of  Spain.  J  Charles  Stuart. 


100      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Till  strewn  be  the  plunderers  gory, 
Who  glut  them  on  green  Innisfail,  — 

To  smoothen  a  path  o'er  the  ocean, 
To  lead  the  south  wind  on  the  sea, 

Till  the  isle  of  our  love  and  devotion 
Be  fetterless,  fearless,  and  free. 


To  wage  the  fierce  battle  for  Erin 

Comes  the  fiery  brigade  of  Lord  Clare,* 
'T  is  oft  from  their  pikes,  keen  and  daring, 

The  Saxon  fled  back  to  his  lair. 
And  favor,  —  not  now  shall  he  get  it, 

Save  from  lances  on  every  hand  ; 
0,  short  are  their  days  who  abetted 

The  murderous  deeds  in  our  land. 

May  Charles  have  but  courage  to  hasten 

With  troops  and  with  arms  to  our  shore, 
We  '11  scorch  from  their  tyranny  wasting 

Our  treacherous  foemen  once  more. 
We  pray  to  the  just  Lord  to  shatter 

Their  hosts  and  their  hopes  to  the  ground, 
To  raise  our  green  island,  and  scatter 

The  blessings  of  freedom  around. 

*  O'Brien,  Lord  Clare,  commander  of  the  cavalry  in  the  Irish  brigade 
the  service  of  France. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  101 

A  VISION. 
CONOR  O'RioRDAN.    TRANS,  BY  J.  C.  MANGAN. 

Conor  O'Riordan  was  a  native  of  West  Muskerry,  County  Cork,  and 
flourished  about  1760.  He  was  a  schoolmaster,  like  most  of  his  asso- 
ciates. 

ONCE  I  strayed  from  Charleville, 

As  careless  as  could  be  ; 
I  wandered  over  plain  and  hill 

Until  I  reached  the  Lee,  — 
And  there  I  found  a  flowery  dell 
Of  beauty  rare  to  tell, 
With  woods  around  as  rich  in  swell 

As  eye  shall  ever  see. 

Wild-birds  warbled  in  their  bower 

Songs  passing  soft  and  sweet, 
And  brilliant  hues  adorned  each  flower 

That  bloomed  beneath  my  feet. 
All  sickness,  feebleness,  and  pain, 
The  wounded  heart  and  tortured  brain, 
Would  vanish,  ne'er  to  come  again, 

In  that  serene  retreat ! 

Lying  in  my  lonely  lair 

In  sleep  medreamt  I  saw 
A  damsel  wonderfully  fair, 

Whose  beauty  waked  my  awe. 
Her  eyes  were  lustrous  to  behold, 
Her  tresses  shone  like  flowing  gold, 
And  nigh  her  stood  that  urchin  bold, 

Young  Love,  who  gives  earth  law. 


10.2.   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  Boy  drew  near  me,  smiled,  and  laughed, 

And  from  his  quiver  drew 
A  delicately  pointed  shaft 

Whose  mission  I  well  knew. 
But  that  bright  maiden  raised  her  hand, 
And  in  a  tone  of  high  command 
Exclaimed,  "  Forbear  !  put  up  your  brand,  — 

He  hath  not  come  to  woo." 

"  Damsel  of  the  queenly  brow," 

I  spake,  "  my  life,  my  love, 
What  name,  I  pray  thee,  bearest  thou 

Here  or  in  heaven  above  ?  " 
"  Banba  and  Eire  am  I  called, 
And  Heber's  kingdom,  now  enthralled, 
I  mourn  my  heroes,  fetter-galled, 

While  all  alone  I  rove." 

Together  then  in  that  sweet  place 

In  saddest  mood  we  spoke, 
Lamenting  much  the  valiant  race 

Who  wear  the  exile's  yoke, 
And  never  hear  aught  glad  or  blithe, 
Naught  but  the  sound  of  spade  or  scythe, 
And  see  naught  but  the  willow  withe, 

Or  gloomy  grove  of  oak. 

"  But  hear,  —  I  have  a  tale  to  tell," 
She  said,  —  "a  cheering  tale ; 

The  Lord  of  Heaven,  I  know  full  well, 
Will  soon  set  free  the  Gael. 

A  band  of  warriors,  great  and  brave, 

Are  coming  o'er  the  ocean  wave  ; 

And  you  shall  hold  the  lands  God  gave 
Your  sires,  both  hill  and  vale. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  103 

"  A  woful  day,  a  dismal  fate, 

Will  overtake  your  foes,  — 
Gray  hairs,  the  curses  of  deep  hate, 

And  sickness  and  all  woes ! 
Death  will  bestride  them  in  the  night, 
Their  every  hope  shall  meet  with  blight, 
And  God  will  put  to  utter  flight 

Their  long  enjoyed  repose. 

"  My  curse  be  on  the  Saxon  tongue, 

And  on  the  Saxon  race  ! 
Those  foreign  churls  are  proud  and  strong, 

And  venomous  and  base. 
Absorbed  in  greed,  and  love  of  self, 
They  scorn  the  poor  :  slaves  of  the  Guelph, 
They  have  no  soul  except  for  pelf. 

God  give  them  sore  disgrace  !  " 


CASHEL  OF  MUNSTER. 
REV.  WILLIAM  ENGLISH.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

Rev.  William  English,  the  author  of  some  beautiful  Jacobite  and 
love  songs,  died  an  Augustinian  friar  in  a  convent  in  Cork  in  the  early 
part  of  the  present  century,  and  but  little  is  known  of  his  earlier  his- 
tory. Cashel  of  Munster,  or  Clar  bog  deal,  the  soft  deal  board,  was 
a  very  favorite  song,  and  has  a  charming  air. 

I  'D  wed  you  without  herds,  without  money  or  rich  array, 
And  I  'd  wed  you  on  a  dewy  morning  at  day-dawn  gray ; 
My  bitter  woe  it  is,  love,  that  we  are  not  far  away 
In  Cashel  town,  though  the  bare  deal  board  were  our  mar- 
riage bed  this  day  ! 


104      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OP  IRELAND. 

0  fair  maid,  remember  the  green  hillside, 
Remember  how  I  hunted  about  the  valleys  wide  : 
Time  now  has  worn  me,  my  locks  are  turned  to  gray, 
The  year  is  scarce,  and  I  am  poor,  but  send  me  not,  love, 
away ! 

0,  deem  not  my  b'lood  is  of  base  strain,  my  girl ! 
O,  deem  not  my  birth  was  as  the  birth  of  a  churl ! 
Marry  me,  and  prove  me,  and  say  soon  you  will, 
That  noble  blood  is  written  on  my  right  side  still ! 

My  purse  holds  no  red  gold,  no  coin  of  the  silver  white, 

No  herds  are  mine  to  drive  through  the  long  twilight ; 

But  the  pretty  girl  that  would  take  me,  all  bare  though  I  be 

and  lone, 
0, 1  M  take  her  with  me  kindly  to  the  County  Tyrone ! 

0  my  girl,  I  can  see  *t  is  in  trouble  you  are, 
And,  0  my  girl,  I  see  't  is  your  people's  reproach  you  bear. 
"  I  am  a  girl  in  trouble  for  his  sake  with  whom  I  fly, 
And  0  may  no  other  maiden  know  such  reproach  as  I ! " 


THE    GENTLE   MAIDEN. 

PATRICK  O'CONNOR.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEOR&E  SIGERSON. 

MY  heart  is  o'erladen 

With  trouble  and  care 
For  love  of  a  maiden 

Sweet,  gentle,  and  fair  : 
I  Ve  strayed  among  strangers 

Full  many  lands  o'er,       • 
But  the  peer  of  that  dear  one 

I  ne'er  met  before  ! 


THE  HEDGE   POETS.  105 

Her  beauty  so  rare  is, 

That  love  her  I  must ; 
The  snow  not  more  fair  is, 

And  swan-like  her  bust  ! 
And  her  words'  gentle  measure 

Rings  tunefully  clear,  — 
0,  it  wounds  me  with  pleasure, 

The  voice  of  my  dear  ! 

Her  yellow  hair  streaming 

Soft-curling  and  free, 
Like  liquid  gold  gleaming, 

Is  beauteous  to  see  : 
The  sweet  smile  of  her  glances 

So  joyous  and  bright 
All  my  reason  entrances 

With  love  and  delight. 

Her  pure  brow  most  fair  is 

'Mid  maids  young  and  meek, 
The  snow-circled  berries 

But  shadow  her  cheek  ; 
Her  breast  has  the  whiteness 

That  thorn  blossoms  bore  ; 
0,  she  shames  all  the  brightness 

Of  Helen  of  yore! 

Her  soft,  queenly  fingers 

Are  skilful  as  fair, 
While  she  gracefully  lingers 

O'er  broideries  rare. 
The  swan  and  the  heath-hen, 

Bird,  blossom,  and  leaf, 
Are  shaped  by  this  sweet  maid 

Who  left  me  in  grief. 


106      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Tho'  long  proud  and  stately 

From  women  afar, 
And  'mid  chiefs  strong  and  great,  lay 

My  revel  and  war, 
Yet  humbled  I  yield  me 

To  this  gentle  maid, 
For  travel  can't  shield  me, 

Nor  sweet  music  aid. 

Then,  dear  one  !  since  Heaven 

Did  guide  thee  to  me, 
And  since  all  see  me  given 

In  love-bonds  to  thee, 
And  that  pledged  from  this  hour 

I  am  thine  evermore, 
0,  cursed  be  the  power 

That  would  part  us,  a  stor  ! 

Sweet  maiden  !  sweet  maiden  ! 

My  own  love,  so  fair, 
Since  far  this  is  spreading 

From  Leim  unto  Clare, 
0,  fly  with  me  kindly 

O'er  ocean's  wild  swell, 
Or  give  me  thy  blessing, 

And,  love,  fare  thee  well ! 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  107 

SHAUN   O'DEE. 
PEIRSE  FITZGERALD.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

The  subject  of  this  song  was  John  O'Dee,  a  blacksmith  living  near 
Youghall,  as  locally  famous  for  skill  as  the  great  Parra  Gow  himself, 
and  his  marriage  with  the  handsomest  girl  in  the  parish  was  looked 
upon  as  the  wedding  of  Vulcan  and  Venus,  besides  particularly  affect- 
ing the  poet. 

I  NE'ER  believed  the  story, 

Prophetic  bard,  you  sung ; 
How  Vulcan,  swarth  and  hoary, 

Won  Venus,  fair  and  young, 
Till  I  saw  my  Pearl  of  Whiteness 

By  kindred  forced  to  be, 
In  her  robes  of  snowy  brightness, 

The  bride  of  Shaun  O'Dee. 

I  ne'er  thought  God,  the  holy, 

A  bridal  would  allow, 
Where  Mammon  spurs  them  solely 

To  crown  her  drooping  brow. 
"  The  richest  weds  the  rarest." 

That  truth,  alas !  I  see, 
Since  my  sunny  pearl  and  fairest 

Is  bride  to  Shaun  O'Dee. 

Were  I  like  most,  ere  morrow, 

A  dire  revenge  I  'd  take, 
And  in  his  grief  and  sorrow 

My  burning  anguish  slake ; 
For  gloom  o'ershades  my  lightness,  — 

0,  woe 's  my  heart  to  see 
Her  form  of  snowy  whiteness 

Embraced  by  Shaun  O'Dee  ! 


108      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

MAIRE   NI   MILLEOIK 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  Dn.  GEORGE  SIGEESON. 

This  strikingly  dramatic  ballad  is  "by  an  unknown  author,  and  its 
origin  is  credited  to  Ulster. 

"  WILL  you  come  where  golden  furze  I  mow, 

Mo  Maire  ni  Milleoin  ? " 
"  To  bind  for  you  I  'd  gladly  go, 

My  Bliss  on  Earth,  mine  own. 
To  chapel,  too,  I  would  repair, 
Though  not  to  aid  my  soul  in  prayer, 
But  just  to  gaze  with  rapture  where 

You  stand,  mo  buchal  baun."  * 

"  Will  you  rove  the  garden  glades  with  me, 

0  Flower  of  Maids,  alone  $  " 
"  What  wondrous  scenes  therein  to  see, 

My  Bliss  on  Earth,  mine  own  1 " 
"  The  apples  from  green  boughs  to  strike, 
To  watch  the  trout  leap  from  the  lake, 
And  caress  a  pretty  cailin  f  like 

Mo  Maire  ni  Milleoin." 

"Will  you  seek  with  me  the  dim  church  aisle, 

0  Maire  ni  Milleoin  ? " 
"  What  pleasant  scenes  to  see  the  while, 

My  Bliss  on  Earth,  mine  own  ? " 
"  We  'd  list  the  chanting  voice  and  prayer 
Of  foreign  pastor  preaching  there, 

*  Mo  buchal  baun,  darling  boy. 
t  Cailin,  fair  maiden. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  109 

0,  we  'd  finish  the  marriage  with  my  fair 
White  flower  of  maids  alone." 

She  sought  the  dim  church  aisle  with  me, 

My  Bliss  on  Earth,  most  fair  ! 
She  sought  the  dim  church  aisle  with  me, 

0  grief !  0  burning  care  ! 
I  plunged  my  glittering,  keen-edged  blade 
In  the  bosom  of  that  loving  maid, 
Till  gushed  her  heart's  blood,  warm  and  red, 

Down  on  the  cold  ground  there. 

"  Alas  !  what  deed  is  this  you  do  ? 

My  Bliss  on  Earth,  mo  store  !  * 
What  woful  deed  is  this  you  do, 

0  youth  whom  I  adore  1 n 
"  Ah,  spare  our  child  and  me,  my  love, 
And  the  seven  lands  of  earth  I  '11  rove 
Ere  cause  of  grief  to  you  I  prove 

For  ever —  ever  more." 

I  bore  her  to  the  mountain  peak, 

The  Flower  of  Maids,  so  lone  ! 
I  bore  her  to  the  mountain  bleak, 

My  thousand  woes,  mo  vrone.lr 
I  cast  my  cota  J  round  her  there, 
And,  'mid  the  murky  mists  of  air, 
I  fled  with  bleeding  feet  and  bare 

From  Maire  ni  Milleoin. 

*  Mo  store,  my  treasure. 

t  Mo  vrone,  my  grief. 

J  Cota,  the  long  frieze  great-coat  of  the  peasantry. 


110      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

NORA   OF   THE  AMBER   HAIR. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

0  NORA,  arnber-coolun, 

It  robs  me  of  my  rest 
That  my  head  should  be  forbidden 

Its  place  upon  thy  breast ! 
It  robs  me  of  my  rest,  love, 

And  it  breaks  my  heart  and  brain ; 
And  0  that  I  could  bear  my  dear 

Across  the  raging  main  ! 

0  valentine  and  sweetheart, 

Be  true  to  what  you  swore 
When  you  promised  me  you  'd  marry  me 

Without  a  farthing  store  ! 
0,  we  'd  walk  the  dew  together, 

And  light  our  steps  should  be  ; 
And  Nora,  amber-coolun, 

I  'd  kiss  you  daintily. 

Hard  by  the  holm 

Lives  this  white  love  of  mine  ; 
Her  thick  hair 's  like  amber, 

Which  causes  me  to  pine  : 
King  of  the  Sabbath, 

0,  grant  me  soon  to  see 
My  own  fat  cattle  grazing 

Around  sweet  Ballybuy  !  * 

*  The  change  in  the  measure  of  the  third  verse  follows  that  of  the  original. 


THE  HEDQE  POETS.  Ill 

DEATH'S   DOLEFUL   VISIT. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

The  extreme  simplicity  and  pathos  of  this  poem,  and  its  entire  free- 
dom from  all  mythological  imagery  and  redundancy,  give  it  a  natural- 
ness and  effect  recalling  "Lady  Anne  Bothwell's  Lament,"  and  other 
Scotch  songs  of  similar  tenor. 

0  YOUTH  so  proved  ungrateful ! 
You  've  covered  me  with  grief, 

You  mind  not  my  heart 's  breaking, 

Nor  think  to  give  relief ! 
How  black  to  you  and  shaming, 
If  you  save  me  not  from  blaming, 
Who  swore  upon  the  Manual 

To  ne'er  leave  me  in  grief ! 

Death  will  come  to  seek  you 

A  small  half-hour  ere  day, 
And  for  each  guileful  action 

He  '11  make  you  strictly  pay. 
In  the  small  room  you  '11  lie  lonely, 
The  white  sheet  round  you  only  : 
How  gladly  you  'd  do  penance 

Could  you  then  but  find  the  way ! 

1  was  a  gloomless  colleen, 
And  joy  was  in  my  voice, 

And  you  brought  the  sorrow  with  you, 

No  more  could  I  rejoice. 
And  now  since  you  're  forsaking, 
And  your  path  from  me  you  're  taking, 
If  through  you  I  die  in  mourning, 

How  black  will  seem  that  choice  ! 


112      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

I  'd  manage  all  your  household 

With  skilful  hand  so  well, 
Your  hose,  and  shirt,  and  cota 

Would  be  fairest  in  the  dell ; 
If  griefs  dark  clouds  hung  o'er  you 
To  youth  I  would  restore  you ; 
0,  wed  me,  —  and  the  glory 

Of  God  shall  with  us  dwell ! 


I  had  once  no  lack  of  clothing, 
Of  food  or  dwelling-place ; 

I  earned  good  fame,  and  won  it 
Among  my  kindred's  race  ; 

Nor  could  Gall  or  Gael  upbraid  me 

Till  your  false  voice  it  betrayed  me ; 

But  the  envoy  I  send  with  you 
Is  the  Most  High  King  of  Grace. 

My  love,  my  heart's  own  neighbor, 

How  lorn  am  I  to-night ! 
How  dark  I  '11  be  to-morrow, 

And  you  upon  your  flight ! 
You  've  broke  life's  wall  before  me, 
And  death's  chill  blast  blows  o'er  me 
Yet  take  one  kiss,  my  darling, 

Before  you  leave  my  sight. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  113 

THE  ROVER. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

The  translator  is  of  the  opinion  that  this  song  was  composed  by  some 
person  recruited  for  the  "  Wild  Geese,"  as  the  Irish  soldiers  who  took 
service  in  France  were  called. 

No  more,  —  no  more  in  Cashel  town 

I  '11  sell  my  health  a  raking, 
Nor  on  days  of  fairs  rove  up  and  down, 

Nor  join  the  merry-making. 
There  mounted  farmers  came  in  throng 

To  try  and  hire  me  over, 
But  now  I  'm  hired,  and  my  journey 's  long, 

The  journey  of  the  Rover  ! 

I  've  found  what  rovers  often  do, 

I  trod  my  health  down  fairly, 
And  that  wandering  out  on  morning's  dew 

Will  gather  fevers  early. 
No  more  shall  flail  swing  o'er  my  head, 

Nor  my  hand  a  spade  shaft  cover, 
But  the  banner  of  France  float  o'er  my  bed   ; 

And  the  pike  stand  by  the  Rover. 

When  to  Callan  once,  with  hook  in  hand, 

I M  go  to  early  shearing, 
Or  to  Dublin  town,  the  news  was  grand 

That  the  "  Rover  gay"  was  nearing. 
And  soon  with  good  gold  home  I  'd  go, 

And  my  mother's  field  dig  over ; 
But  no  more  —  no  more  this  land  shall  know 

My  name  as  the  merry  "  Rover." 
8 


114      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Five  hundred  farewells  to  fatherland,  — 

To  my  loved  and  lovely  island ! 
And  to  Culach's  boys,  —  they  'd  better  stand 

Her  guards  by  glen  and  highland. 
But  now  that  I  am  poor  and  lone, 

A  wanderer,  not  in  clover, 
My  heart  it  sinks  with  bitter  moan 

To  have  ever  lived  a  Rover. 

In  pleasant  Kerry  lives  a  girl, 

A  girl  whom  I  love  dearly  : 
Her  cheek  's  a  rose,  her  brow 's  a  pearl, 

And  her  blue  eyes  shine  so  clearly ! 
Her  long  fair  locks  fall  curling  down, 

O'er  a  breast  untouched  by  lover ; 
More  dear  than  dames  with  a  hundred  pound 

Is  she  unto  the  Rover ! 

Ah  !  well  I  mind  when  my  own  men  drove 

My  cattle  in  no  small  way ; 
With  cows,  with  sheep,  with  calves,  they  'd  move, 

With  steeds,  too,  west  to  Galway : 
Heaven  willed  I  'd  lose  each  horse  and  cow, 

And  my  health  but  half  recover, 
But  it  breaks  my  heart,  for  her  sake,  now 

That  I  'm  only  a  sorry  Rover. 

But  when  once  the  French  come  o'er  the  main 

With  stout  camps  in  each  valley, 
With  Buck  O'Grady  back  again, 

And  poor,  brave  Teige  O'Daly,* 

*  Buck  O'Grady  and  Teige  O'Daly  were  probably  Kapparee  leaders,  who 
had  been  obliged  to  flee  the  country. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  115 

0,  the  royal  barracks  in  dust  shall  lie, 

And  the  yeomen  we  '11  chase  over, 
And  the  English  clan  be  forced  to  fly,  — 

'T  is  the  sole  hope  of  the  Rover. 


PULSE   OF   MY   HEART. 
ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

"  THE  love  of  my  bosom,  fair  maiden,  was  thine, 

Since  first  saw  my  eyes  thy  white  graces ; 
More  welcome  than  droves  of  the  black  and  white  kine 

Were  thy  form  in  my  home's  pleasant  places ; 
0,  thy  couch  would  be  placed  in  a  room  sunny  bright, 
The  cows  would  low  soft  for  thy  pail  at  twilight, 
Thy  fair  little  shoe  with  rich  buckles  be  dight ! 
Then  grant  me  thy  hand  and  caresses." 

"  My  hand  I  won't  give  thee,  don't  hope  it  at  all, 

Till  mamma  shall  have  conned  the  tale  over ; 
For  the  fame  of  thy  name  is,  alas  !  very  small, 

She  hears  thou  'rt  a  drinker  and  rover  ; 
That  't  is  little  you  'd  think  to  spend  five  times  a  pound, 
And  were  there  a  farthingless  bard  to  be  found, 
0,  the  poster  *  itself  soon  in  drink  would  go  round  : 
What  maid  would  choose  thee  for  her  lover  1 " 

"  Don't  trust  in  such  slander,  bright  pulse  of  my  breast : 

Not  oft  to  the  tavern  I  'm  roaming ; 
And  there  's  gold  in  my  pocket  and  goods  in  my  chest, 

'T  is  few  I  e'er  spent  on  cups  foaming. 

*  The  four-post  bedstead. 


116       THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

0,  when  ripe  harvest  comes,  what  increase  will  be  mine, 
With  yellow  corn  stooks  to  build  stacks  tall  and  fine ! 
Ah  !  shall  none  but  my  mother  the  black  and  white  kine 
Then  milk  in  the  red,  dewy  gloaming  ] " 


HAIL,  0  FAIR  MAIDEN ! 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

The  date  of  this  ballad  is  uncertain,  and  may  be  earlier  than  the  time 
of  the  hedge  poets,  or  it  may  have  been  composed  from  tradition.  It 
is  almost  the  only  specimen  that  has  been  preserved  of  the  romantic 
love-ballad,  so  common  in  English  poetry. 

"  HAIL,  0  fair  maiden  !  this  morning  fair 
'T  is  calm  are  thy  slumbers,  and  I  in  despair ; 
Rise  and  make  ready,  and,  turning  our  steeds, 
We  '11  travel  together  to  Munster's  meads." 

"  Tell  first  thy  christened  and  surname  too, 
Lest  what 's  said  about  Munster  men  might  come  true  : 
They  'd  take  me  in  joy,  and  they  'd  leave  me  in  rue, 
To  bear  my  kin's  scorn  my  whole  life  through." 

"  I  '11  tell  first  my  christened  and  surname  true,  — 
Risteard  O'Brien,  from  o'er  Munster's  dew ; 
I  'm  heir  to  an  earl  and  to  long  towers  white, 
And  for  me  dies  the  child  of  the  Greenwood  Knight." 

"  If  thou  'rt  heir  to  an  earl  and  to  long  towers  white, 
Thou  'It  get  rich  maidens  plenty  to  be  thy  delight, 
Who  've  peers  as  their  fathers  and  hold  the  high  cheer : 
Thou  needest  my  humble  sort  not,  cavalier ! " 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  •  117 

"  Come  with  me,  and  thou  too  shalt  sit  with  peers ; 
Come  with  me,  and  thou  too  shalt  hold  high  cheers ; 
Thou  'It  have  halls  where  are  dances  and  music  old, 
Thou  'It  have  couches  the  third  of  each  red  with  gold." 

"  I  'm  not  used  at  my  mother's  to  sit  with  hosts  ; 
I  'm  not  used  at  the  board  to  have  wines  and  toasts ; 
I  'm  not  used  to  the  dance-halls  with  music  old, 
Nor  to  couches  the  third  of  each  red  with  gold." 

"  0,  might  we  go  westward  yon  bright  path  o'er, 
With  gold  and  with  sun  would  our  coach  shine  more, 
And  sure  't  is  not  j  ustice  to  grieve  me  sore, 
For  long,  long  I  'm  heart-sick  for  thee,  mo  store" 


FAIRY   MARY  BARRY. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

0  FAIRY  Mary  Barry,  I  tarry  down-hearted ; 
Unknown  to  friend  or  kin,  health  and  wealth  have  departed ; 
When  I  'm  going  to  my  bed,  or  I  wake  in  the  morning, 
My  thought  is  still  of  you  and  your  cruel,  cruel  scorning. 

0  fairy  Mary  Barry,  take  counsel,  my  bright  love, 

And  send  away  the  stranger  from  out  of  your  sight,  love, 
And  all  his  fine  airs,  —  there 's  more  truth  in  me,  love  ; 
Then  come  to  me,  ma  chree,  since  our  parents  agree,  love. 

1  thought  I  could  coax  you  with  promise  and  kisses, 
I  thought  I  could  coax  you  with  vows  and  caresses, 
I  thought  I  could  coax  you  ere  yellowed  the  barley ; 
But  you  've  left  me  to  the  new  year  in  sore  sorrow  fairly. 


118      THF  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

'T  is  delight  unto  the  earth  when  your  little  feet  press  it, 
'T  is  delight  unto  the  earth  when  your  sweet  singings  bless  it, 
JT  is  delight  unto  the  earth  when  you  lie,  love,  upon  it ; 
But,  0  his  high  delight  who  your  heart,  love,  has  won  it ! 


I  would  wander  through  the  streets  hand  in  hand  with  my 

truelove ; 

I  would  sail  the  salt  sea  with  no  fortune  but  you,  love ; 
My  nearest  and  my  dearest,  I  'd  leave  them  forever, 
And  you  'd  raise  me  from  death  if  you  said,  "  We  '11  ne'er 


I  gave  you  —  0,  I  gave  you  —  I  gave  you  my  whole  love ; 
On  the  festival  of  Mary  my  poor  heart  you  stole,  love, 
With  your  soft  green  eyes  like  dewdrops  on  corn  that  is 

springing, 
With  the  music  of  your  red  lips  like  sweet  starling's  singing. 

I  'd  toast   you  —  0,  I  'd  toast  you  —  I  'd  toast  you  right 

gladly ; 

If  I  were  on  shipboard,  I  'd  toast  you  less  sadly ; 
And  if  I  were  your  sweetheart,  through  Erin  so  wide,  love, 
None  could  see  —  (here  *s  your  bright  health  !)  —  so  happy  a 

bride,  love. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  119 


LAMENT  OVER  THE  RUINS  OF  THE  ABBEY  OF 
TIMOLEAGUE. 

JOHN  O'CuLLANE.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

John  O'Cullane,  or  Collins,  as  his  name  is  Anglicized,  was  a  native 
of  the  county  of  Cork,  and  kept  a  school  at  Skibbereen,  where  he  died 
in  1816. 

LONE  and  weary  as  I  wandered 

By  the  bleak  shore  of  the  sea, 
Meditating  and  reflecting 

On  the  world's  hard  destiny,  — 

Forth  the  moon  and  stars  'gan  glimmer 

In  the  quiet  tide  beneath  ; 
For  on  slumbering  spray  and  blossom 

Breathed  not  out  of  heaven  a  breath. 

On  I  went  in  sad  dejection, 

Careless  where  my  footsteps  bore, 

Till  a  ruined  church  before  me 
Opened  wide  its  ancient  door,  — 

Till  I  stood  before  the  portals, 

Where  of  old  were  wont  to  be, 
For  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  leper, 

Alms  and  hospitality. 

Still  the  ancient  seat  was  standing, 

Built  against  the  buttress  gray, 
Where  the  clergy  used  to  welcome 

Weary  travellers  on  their  way! 


120      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

There  I  sat  me  down  in  sadness, 
'Neath  my  cheek  I  placed  my  hand, 

Till  the  tears  fell  hot  and  briny 
Down  upon  the  grassy  land. 

There,  I  said  in  woful  sorrow, 

Weeping  bitterly  the  while, 
Was  a  time  when  joy  and  gladness 

Reigned  within  this  ruined  pile,  — 

Was  a  time  when  bells  were  tinkling, 
Clergy  preaching  peace  abroad, 

Psalms  a-singing,  music  ringing 
Praises  to  the  mighty  God. 

Empty  aisle,  deserted  chancel, 

Tower  tottering  to  your  fall, 
Many  a  storm  since  then  has  beaten 

On  the  gray  head  of  your  wall. 

Many  a  bitter  storm  and  tempest 
Has  your  roof-tree  turned  away, 

Since  you  first  were  formed  a  temple 
To  the  Lord  of  night  and  day. 

Holy  house  of  ivied  gables, 

That  wert  once  the  country's  pride, 

Houseless  now,  in  weary  wandering, 
Roam  your  inmates  far  and  wide. 

Lone  you  are  to-day  and  dismal,  — 
Joyful  psalms  no  more  are  heard 

Where,  within  your  choir,  her  vesper 
Screeches  the  cat-headed  bird. 


THE   HEDGE  POETS.  121 

Ivy  from  your  eaves  is  growing, 

Nettles  round  your  green  hearthstone, 

Foxes  howl  where,  in  your  corners, 
Dropping  waters  make  their  moan. 

Where  the  lark  to  early  matins 

Used  your  clergy  forth  to  call, 
There,  alas  !  no  tongue  is  stirring, 

Save  the  daw's  upon  the  wall. 

Refectory  cold  and  empty, 

Dormitory  bleak  and  bare, 
Where  are  now  your  pious  uses, 

Simple  bed,  and  frugal  fare  ] 

Gone  your  abbot,  rule  and  order, 

Broken  down  your  altar  stones ; 
Nought  see  I  beneath  your  shelter, 

Save  a  heap  of  clayey  bones. 

0  the  hardship,  0  the  hatred, 
Tyranny  and  cruel  war, 

Persecution  and  oppression, 
That  have  left  you  as  you  are  ! 

1  myself  once  also  prospered,  — 
Mine  is,  too,  an  altered  plight ; 

Trouble,  care,  and  age  have  left  me 
Good  for  naught  but  grief  to-night. 

Gone  my  motion  and  my  vigor,  — 

Gone  the  use  of  eye  and  ear ; 
At  my  feet  lie  friends  and  children, 

Powerless  and  corrupting  here. 


122      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Woe  is  written  on  my  visage, 
In  a  nut  my  heart  would  lie  ; 

Death's  deliverance  were  welcome,  — 
Father,  let  the  old  man  die  ! 


A  LAMENT  FOR  KILCASH. 

ANON.  TRANS.  BY  J.  C.  MANGAN. 

Kilcash  was  a  former  seat  of  the  Butler  family,  near  Clonmel.  The 
lament  is  attributed  to  a  student  named  Lane,  whom  Lady  Iveagh  had 
educated  for  the  priesthood. 

OH,  sorrow  the  saddest  and  sorest ! 

Kilcash's  attractions  are  fled  ! 
Felled  lie  the  high  trees  of  its  forest, 

And  its  bells  hang  silent  and  dead. 
There  dwelt  the  fair  lady,  the  vaunted, 

Who  spread  through  the  island  her  fame, 
There  the  mass  and  the  vespers  were  chanted, 

And  thither  the  proud  earls  came. 

I  am  worn  by  an  anguish  unspoken 

As  I  gaze  on  its  glories  defaced, 
Its  beautiful  gates  lying  broken, 

Its  gardens  all  desert  and  waste ; 
Its  courts  that  in  lightning  and  thunder 

Stood  firm  are,  alas  !  all  decayed  ; 
And  the  Lady  Iveagh  sleepeth  under 

The  sod  in  the  greenwood  shade. 

No  more  on  a  summer-day  sunny 

Shall  I  hear  the  thrush  sing  from  his  lair, 

No  more  see  the  bee  bearing  honey 
At  noon  through  the  odorous  air. 


THE  HEDGE   POETS.  123 

Hushed  now  in  the  thicket  so  shady, 

The  dove  hath  forgotten  her  call, 
And  mute  in  her  grave  lies  the  lady, 

Whose  voice  was  the  sweetest  of  all. 

As  the  deer  from  the  brow  of  the  mountain, 

When  chased  by  the  hunter  and  hound, 
Looks  down  upon  forest  and  fountain, 

And  all  the  green  scenery  round  ; 
So  I  on  thy  drear  desolation 

Gaze,  0  my  Kilcash,  upon  thee, — 
On  thy  ruin  and  black  devastation, 

So  doleful  and  woful  to  see. 

There  is  mist  on  thy  woods  and  thy  meadows ; 

The  sun  appears  shorn  of  his  beams  ; 
Thy  gardens  are  shrouded  in  shadows, 

And  the  beauty  is  gone  from  thy  streams. 
The  hare  has  forsaken  his  cover; 

The  wild-fowl  is  lost  to  the  lake  ; 
Desolation  hath  shadowed  thee  over, 

And  left  thee  all  brier  and  brake. 

And  I  weep  while  I  pen  the  sad  story :  — 

Our  prince  has  gone  over  the  main, 
With  a  damsel,  the  pride  and  the  glory, 

Not  more  of  green  Erin  than  Spain. 
The  poor  and  the  helpless  bewail  her, 

The  cripple,  the  blind,  and  the  old ; 
She  never  stood  forth  as  their  jailer, 

But  gave  them  her  silver  and  gold. 

0  God,  I  beseech  thee  to  send  her 
Home  here  to  the  land  of  her  birth ; 


124      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

We  shall  then  have  rejoicing  and  splendor, 
And  revel  in  plenty  and  mirth. 

And  our  land  shall  be  highly  exalted ; 
And  till  the  dread  dawn  of  that  day 

When  the  race  of  old  Time  shall  have  halted, 
It  shall  nourish  in  glory  alway. 


FROM   THE   COLD   SOD   THAT'S   O'ER  YOU. 

ANON.      TRANS.  BY  EDWARD  WALSHE. 

FROM  the  cold  sod  that 's  o'er  you 

I  never  shall  sever,  — 
Were  my  hands  twined  in  yours,  love, 

I  'd  hold  them  forever. 
My  fondest,  my  fairest, 

We  may  now  sleep  together,  — 
I  've  the  cold  earth's  damp  odor, 

And  I  'm  worn  from  the  weather. 

This  breast,  filled  with  fondness, 

Is  wounded  and  weary ; 
A  dark  gulf  beneath  it 
.  Yawns  jet-black  and  dreary. 
When  Death  comes  a  victor 

In  mercy  to  greet  me, 
On  the  wings  of  the  whirlwind 

In  wild  wastes  you  '11  meet  me. 

When  the  folk  of  my  household 

Suppose  I  am  sleeping, 
On  your  cold  grave,  till  morning, 

The  lone  watch  I  'm  keeping, 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  125 

My  grief  to  the  night  wind, 

For  the  inild  maid  to  render, 
Who  was  my  betrothed 

Since  infancy  tender ! 

Remember  the  lone  night 

I  last  spent  with  you,  love, 
Beneath  the  dark  sloe-tree 

When  the  icy  wind  blew,  love. 
High  praise  to  the  Saviour, 

No  sin  stain  had  found  you, 
That  your  virginal  glory 

Shines  brightly  around  you. 

The  priests  and  the  friars 

Are  ceaselessly  chiding, 
That  I  love  a  young  maiden 

In  life  not  abiding. 
0,  I  'd  shelter  and  shield  you 

If  wild  storms  were  swelling, 
And  0  my  wrecked  hope, 

That  the  cold  earth's  your  dwelling! 

Alas  for  your  father, 

And  also  your  mother, 
And  all  your  relations, 

Your  sister  and  brother, 
Who  gave  you  to  sorrow, 

And  the  grave  'neath  the  willow, 
While  I  craved  as  your  portion 

But  to  share  your  chaste  pillow ! 


126       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

DR1MMIN   DHU. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

Dremmin  dhu  dhcelish,  the  dear  black  cow,  was  another  pseudonym 
for  Ireland,  and  there  is  a  very  sweet  and  plaintive  air  of  that  name. 

AH,  Drimmin  dhu  dheelish,  a  pride  of  the  flow,* 
Ah,  where  are  your  folks,  —  are  they  living  or  no  ? 
They  're  down  in  the  ground,  'neath  the  sod  lying  low, 
Expecting  King  James  with  the  crown  on  his  brow. 

But  if  I  could  get  sight  of  the  crown  on  his  brow, 
By  night  and  day  travelling  to  London  I  'd  go ; 
Over  mountains  of  mist  and  soft  mosses  below, 
Till  it  beat  on  the  kettle-drums,  Drimmin  dhu,  0. 

Welcome  home,  welcome  home,  Drimmin  dhu,  0  ! 
Good  was  your  sweet  milk  for  drinking,  I  trow ; 
With  your  face  like  a  rose  and  your  dewlap  of  snow, 
I  '11  part  from  you  never,  Drimmin  dhu,  0  ! 


THE   ATTRIBUTES   OF  ERIN. 
DEARMID  O'SULLIVAN.    TRANS.  BY  DR.  GEORGE  SIGERSON. 

0,  SUCH  things  were  never  known  in  the  days  of  Ever  Mor, 
North  or  south,  east  or  west,  from  the  centre  to  the  shore ; 
Men  paid  not  half  their  taxes  with  the  butter,  long  ago,  . 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  6eo.t 

*  The  grassy  part  of  a  bog. 
t  A  n-Erin  beo,  in  living  Erin. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  127 

They  never  trudged  to  market  with  the  lean  or  with  the 

grease, 

With  the  calves  or  the  hogs,  or  the  eggs  of  hens  and  geese. 
Ah,  the  milk  soured  not  in  crocks,  but  most  plenteously  did 

flow, 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  beo. 

Not  a  churl  writhed  his   mouth  with  the  snaky  English 

tongue, 
Nor  lounged  with  silken  collar,  where  a  hempen  should  be 

strung ; 
And  those  hard  and  hideous  hats,  they  'd  have  made  them 

scare  the  crow, 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  beo. 

Old  women  did  not  swagger  then  in  satin  scarf  and  cloak, 
Nor  tighten  up  their  whalebones  till  they  seemed  about  to 

choke ; 

Faith,  bonnets  like  straw  barrels  never,  never  were  the  "go,'* 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  beo. 


Then  each  scandal-chattering  hag  had  to  mind  her  own 

affairs, 

Each  lazy,  sluggish  clown  dared  not  give  himself  such  airs, 
But  digged  and  gathered  sticks,  and  at  wages  very  low, 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were   a  n-Erin  beo. 

None  made  a  snuff-pit  of  his  nose  nor  dyed  his  throat  with 

tea, 

Nor  flaunted  a  silk  handkerchief  to  blow  his  trumpet  wee ; 
No  fan  had  any  woman,  but  the  breeze  that  heaven  did  blow, 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a' n-Erin  beo. 


128   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Those  gentry  —  who  so  grand  1  —  who  are  seated  now  a-horse, 
Were  trenchers  of  the  black  earth  and  cutters  of  the  gorse  : 
By  the  right  hand  of  my  father,  you  'd  not  touch  them  with 

your  toe 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  beo. 

But  that  flag  that  o'er  our  bravest  spread  red  ruin  in  the 

North 

O'er  the  whole  of  Inisfeilin  like  a  cloud  is  now  hung  forth. 
Ah,  flag  of  gloomy  change !  thou  hadst  caused  most  bitter 

woe 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  beo. 

When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  alive  in  the  land, 
Fame  was  fanned  and  flourished  and  the  deeds  of  heroes 

grand, 

Sages  and  sweet  poets  saw  a  brilliant  guerdon  glow, 
When  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  were  a  n-Erin  beo. 

But  I  '11  cease  me  now  from  lauding  their  chivalry  so  gay : 
Sure,  manly,  dauntless  actions  were  as  deeds  of  every  day ; 
No  hogs  have  I  nor  butter,  and  henceforth  I  must  go 
(For  what  were  even  heroes  now  ?)  under  never-ending  woe. 

Unless  it  pleaseth  Christ,  our  Lord,  to  smite  the  fiend  at 

length, 
And  restore   unto  our  mother  land   her  freedom  and  her 

strength, 

To  scourge  the  ghastly  Gall  from  our  sullied  shores,  and,  oh ! 
Bring  the  true  and  gallant  Gael  back  a  n-Erin  beo. 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  129 

YOUGHALL  HARBOR. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 

ONE  Sunday  morning  into  Youghall  walking 

I  met  a  maiden  upon  the  way ; 
Her  little  mouth  sweet  as  fairy  music, 

Her  soft  cheeks  blushing  like  dawn  of  day; 
I  laid  a  bold  hand  upon  her  bosom, 

And  ask  'd  a  kiss  ;  but  she  answered,  "  No  : 
Fair  sir,  be  gentle ;  do  not  tear  my  mantle ; 

'T  is  none  in  Erin  my  grief  can  know. 

"  'T  is  but  a  little  hour  since  I  left  Youghall, 

And  my  love  forbade  me  to  return ; 
And  now  my  weary  way  I  wander 

Into  Cappoquiu,  a  poor  girl  forlorn. 
Then  do  not  tempt  me ;  for,  alas  !  I  dread  them 

Who  with  tempting  proffers  teach  girls  to  roam, 
Who  'd  first  deceive  us,  then  faithless  leave  us, 

And  send  us  shamefaced  and  barefoot  home." 

"  My  heart  and  hand  here  !  I  mean  you  marriage  ! 

I  have  loved  like  you  and  known  love's  pain ; 
If  you  turn  back  now  to  Youghall  Harbor, 

You  ne'er  shall  want  house  or  home  again. 
You  shall  a  lace  cap  like  any  lady, 

Cloak  and  capuchin,  too,  to  keep  you  warm, 
And  if  God  please,  may  be,  a  little  baby 

By  and  by  to  nestle  within  your  arm." 


130      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

THE   FISHERMAN'S   KEEN   FOR  HIS   SONS. 
ANON.    TRANS,  by  MRS.  ELLEN  FITZ  SIMON. 

The  specimen  of  the  keen  is  described  as  the  lamentation  of  a  man 
named  O'Donoghue,  of  Affadown,  or  Roaring  Water,  in  the  west  of  the 
County  Cork,  for  his  three  sons  and  son-in-law,  who  were  drowned, 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  it  was  his  own  composition. 

0,  LOUDLY  wailed  the  winter  wind,  the  driving  sleet  fell  fast. 
The  ocean  billows  wildly  heaved  beneath  the  bitter  blast ; 
My  three  fair  sons  at  break  of  day  to  fish  had  left  the  shore, 
The  tempest  burst  forth  in  its  wrath,  —  they  ne'er  returned 
more. 

Cormac.  'neath  whose  unerring  aim  the  wild  duck  fell  in 

flight, 

The  plover  of  the  lonesome  hills,  the  curlew  swift  as  light ! 
My  first-born  child,  —  the  flower  of  youth,  —  the  dearest  and 

the  best ! 
0,  would  that  thou  wert  spared  to  me  though  I  had  lost 

the  rest ! 

And  thou,  my  handsome  Felix !  in  whose  eye  so  dark  and 

bright 

The  soul  of  courage  and  of  wit  looked  forth  in  laughing  light ! 
And   Daniel  too,   my  fair-haired  boy,   the  gentle  and  the 

brave,  — 
All,  all  my  stately  sons  were  whelmed  beneath  the  foaming 

wave. 

Upon  the  shore,  in  wild  despair,  your  aged  father  stood, 
And  gazed  upon  his  Daniel's,  corse,  too  late  snatched  from 
the  flood, 


THE  HEDGE  POETS.  131 

I  saw  him  pale  and  lifeless  lie,  no  more  to  see  the  light, — 
And  cold  and  dumb  and  motionless  my  heart  grew  at  tho 
sight. 

My  children,  my  loved  children  !  do  you  view  my  bitter  grief? 
Look  down  upon  your  poor  old  sire,  whose  woe  knows  no 

relief. 
The  sunshine  of  mine  eyes  is  gone,  —  the  comfort  of  my 

heart; 
My  life  of  life,  my  soul  of  soul,  I  've  seen  from  earth  depart. 

What  am  I  now  1    An  aged  man,  to  earth  by  sorrow  bowed, 
I  weep  within  a  stranger's  home,  —  alone  e'en  in  a  crowd ; 
There  is  no  sorrow  like  to  mine,  no  grief  like  mine  appears, 
My  once  blithe  Christmas  is  weighed  down  with  anguish  and 
with  tears. 

My  sons,  my  sons  !  abandoned  to  the  fury  of  the  waves  ! 
Would  I  could  reach  the  two  who  lie  in  ocean's  darksome 

caves ! 
'T  would  bring  some  comfort  to  my  heart  in  earth  to  see  them 

laid, 
And  hear  in  Affadown  the  wild  lamentings  for  them  made. 

0,  would  that,  like  the  gay  wild  geese,  my  sons  had  left  the 

land, 

From  their  poor  father  in  his  age,  to  seek  a  foreign  strand ; 
Then  might  I  hope  the  Lord  of  heaven  in  mercy  would  restore 
My  brave  and  good  and  stately  sous  some  time  to  me  once 

more. 


132       THE  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

THE  FAIRY  NURSE. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  EDWARD  WALSHE. 

A  girl  is  supposed  to  be  led  into  the  fairy  fort  of  Lissoe,  where  she 
sees  her  little  brother,  who  had  died  about  a  week  before,  laid  in  a  rich 
cradle,  and  a  young  woman  singing  as  she  rocks  him  to  sleep. — 
Translator's  note. 

.    SWEET  babe,  a  golden  cradle  holds  thee, 
And  soft  the  snow-white  fleece  enfolds  thee ; 
In  airy  bower  I  '11  watch  thy  sleeping, 
Where  branching  boughs  to  tjie  winds  are  sweeping. 
Shuheen  sho,  lulo  lo  ! 

When  mothers  languish  broken-hearted, 
When  young  wives  are  from  husbands  parted, 
Ah  !  little  think  the  keeners  lonely 
They  weep  some  time-worn  fairy  only. 
Shuheen  sho,  lulo  lo  ! 

Within  our  magic  halls  of  brightness 
Trips  many  a  foot  of  snowy  whiteness ; 
Stolen  maidens,  queens  of  fairy, 
And  kings  and  chiefs  a  sleagh  shie  *  airy. 
Shuheen  sho,  lulo  lo  ! 

Rest  thee,  babe  !    I  love  thee  dearly, 
And  as  thy  mortal  mother  nearly ; 
Ours  is  the  swiftest  steed  and  proudest, 
That  moves  where  the  tramp  of  the  host  is  loudest ; 
Shuheen  sho,  lulo  lo  ! 

*  Sleagh  shie,  fairy  host. 


THE  HEDGE   POETS.  133 

Rest  thee,  babe  !  for  soon  thy  slumbers 
Shall  flee  at  the  magic  Keol-shie's  *  numbers ; 
In  airy  bower  I'll  watch  thy  sleeping, 
Where  branchy  trees  to  the  breeze  are  sweeping ; 
Shuheen  sho,  lolo  lo ! 


THE   OUTLAW   OF   LOCH   LENE. 

ANON.    TRANS.  BY  J.  J.  CALLANAN. 

0,  MANY  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen 
That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt,  —  like  the  brewing  of  men. 
My  bed  was  the  ground,  my  roof  the  greenwood  above, 
And  the  wealth  that  I  sought  one  kind  glance  from  my  love. 

Alas !  on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove  from  the  field, 

That  I  was  not  near,  from  terror  my  angel  to  shield  ! 

She  stretched  forth  her  arms,  her  mantle  she  flung  to  the 

wind, 
And  swam  o'er  Loch  Lene  her  outlawed  lover  to  find. 

0,  would  that  a  freezing,  sleet-winged  tempest  would  sweep, 
And  I  and  my  love  were  lone,  far  off  on  the  deep ! 
I  'd  ask  not  a  ship,  or  a  bark,  or  pinnace,  to  save,  — 
With  her  hand  round  my  waist,  I  'd  not  fear  the  wind  or  the 
wave. 

'T  is  down  by  the  lake,  where  the  wild  tree  fringes  its  sides, 
The  maid  of  my  heart,  my  fair  one  of  heaven,  resides ; 
I  think  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  along, 
The  birds  go  to  sleep  with  the  sweet,  wild  burst  of  her  song. 

*  Keol  shic,  fairy  music. 


134      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   TWISTING   OF   THE  EOPE. 

The  legend  attached  to  the  beautiful,  capricious  and  characteristic 
Irish  air  of  "  The  Twisting  of  the  Rope,"  is  that  a  Connaught  harper, 
on  his  visit  to  a  farmer's  house,  was  inveigled  into  twisting  a  hay  rope 
by  the  mother,  who  did  not  approve  his  attentions  to  her  daughter.  He 
receded  backward  as  he  twisted  until  he  found  himself  outside  the  door, 
which  was  shut  against  him,  and  his  harp  thrown  out  of  the  window. 

WHAT  mortal  conflict  drove  me  here  to  roam, 
Though  many  a  maid  I  've  left  behind  at  home ; 
Forth  from  the  house,  where  dwelt  my  heart's  dear  hope, 
I  was  turned  by  the  hag  at  the  twisting  of  the  rope. 

If  thou  be  mine,  be  mine  both  day  and  night, 
If  thou  be  mine,  be  mine  in  all  men's  sight, 
If  thou  be  mine,  be  mine  o'er  all  beside,  — 
And  0  that  thou  wert  now  my  wedded  bride ! 

In  Sligo  first  I  did  my  love  behold, 

In  Galway  town  I  spent  with  her  my  gold : 

But  by  this  hand,  if  thus  they  me  pursue, 

I  '11  teach  these  dames  to  dance  a  measure  new ! 


THE    STREET   BALLADS. 

THE  modern  street  ballad  singers  are  the  legitimate  de- 
scendants of  the  ancient  bards,  in  the  respect  that  they 
are  professional  poets  who  recite  their^pwn  verses,  sing  the 
praises  of  their  patrons,  compose  lamentations  and  epitha- 
lamia,  are  the  chroniclers  of  passing  events,  and  fulfil  the 
exact  functions  of  the  ancient  bardic  order  —  under  some- 
what different  circumstances.  Their  uniform  is  of  rags  and 
tatters,  instead  of  embroidered  robes  of  woven  colors,  and 
'their  guerdon  is  a  halfpenny  for  each  ballad  they  sell,  in- 
stead of  gold  cups  from  the  tables  of  chiefs.  But  their  office 
is  the  same ;  and  they  may  claim  the  altered  circumstances, 
the  lack  of  estimation  and  meagreness  of  the  reward,  as  the 
cause  of  the  degradation  of  their  verse. 

There  is  no  country  in  the  world  where  the  street  ballad 
nourishes  to  such  an  extent  as  it  does  in  Ireland.  In  Eng- 
land they  have  been  in  a  great  measure  superseded  by  the 
"  penny  dreadful "  and  police  newspapers,  which  contain  five 
times  as  much  highly  spiced  food  for  the  money;  but  in 
Ireland  they  still  supply  the  place  of  the  newspapers,  and 
are  the  general  chronicles  of  every  event  of  importance, 
local  or  national.  They  tell  of  the  latest  murder,  execution, 
runaway  match,  remarkable  run  with  the  hounds,  eviction, 
or  other  local  matter  of  gossip,  take  the  popular  side  in  con- 
tested elections,  sing  the  praises  of  popular  leaders,  or  those 
of  some  particular  rich  and  generous  local  patron,  recite  the 
lamentation  of  the  condemned  criminal,  and,  in  short,  express 


136       THE   POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

both  the  feelings  of  the  people  and  are  the  records  of  events. 
The  quantity  produced  is  enormous,  and  there  is  no  fair 
without  several  of  the  singers  at  the  corners  of  the  market- 
place, while  in  the  large  cities  they  are  as  common  as  street 
organ-grinders  in  this  country. 

At  a  corner  of  a  market-place,  where  a  thicker  crowd  than 
usual  is  gathered,  there  will  be  heard  a  song  in  an  indescrib- 
able, melancholy  cadence,  rising  and  falling  in  a  sort  of  pillelu 
falsetto,  where  two  female  ballad-singers  are  holding  forth. 
The  first  voice  "  rises  "  it,  — 

"  Come  all  you  tender  Uhristyans,  with  me  now  sympathi-ize,"  — 

with  a  prolonged  inflection  on  the  last  syllable;  then  the 
second  voice  joins  in  on  the  second  line,  and  together  they 
rise  to  the  height  of  lamentation  and  sink  to  the  depths  of 
despair ;  and  so  on,  in  solo  and  duet  alternately,  until  the 
end  of  the  ballad.  While  the  leading  woman  is  singing  her 
solo,  the  second  is  selling  from  the  bundle  of  ballads  in  her 
left  hand,  never  failing  to  join  in  the  melody  at  the  proper 
instant,  although  in  the  middle  of  a  fluent  recommendation 
of  the  ballad,  or  a  dispute  about  change  for  a  sixpence. 
The  gleewomen  are  generally  dressed  in  ragged  cloaks  faded 
to  a  greenish  brown,  their  faces  pale  and  wan,  lack-lustre 
eyes,  and  voices  cracked  and  husky.  Everything  is  sung  to 
the  same  tune  and  with  the  same  expression,  and  verses  in- 
tended to  be  jovial  are  rendered  with  the  same  melancholy 
cadence,  which  sometimes  has  a  ludicrous  effect  utterly 
beyond  burlesque.  Very  often  the  ballad-singer  is  a  man 
clad  in  tattered  frieze,  with  an  old  caubeen  cocked  on  the 
back  of  his  head  as  he  raises  his  voice  in  ecstasy  of  mechani- 
cal lamentation.  But  whether  man  or  woman,  there  is  the 
same  complete  lack  of  any  attempt  at  melody,  and  the  same 
melancholy  listlessness  of  expression.  In  spirit  and  state 
they  are  but  very  little  removed  above  the  beggars. 


THE   STREET  BALLADS.  137 

The  composers  of  these  ballads  are  almost  invariably  the 
singers  themselves.  They  will  improvise  a  dozen  verses  of 
the  established  pattern  in  an  evening,  after  their  day's  singing 
is  done,  on  any  subject.  They  have  neither  the  skill  nor  the 
inspiration  of  the  schoolmasters,  who  were  the  hedge  poets, 
and  their  verse  has  become  more  mechanical,  as  the  end  is 
more  immediately  mercenary.  Weavers,  tailors,  and  shoe- 
makers still  supply  some  of  the  ballads,  their  sedentary 
occupations  being  supposed  to  be  specially  favorable  to  the 
cultivation  of  poetry,  but  the  hedge  schoolmaster  has  disap- 
peared before  the  national  Board  of  Education,  unless  there 
may  be  here  and  there  a  red-nosed,  white-haired  veteran, 
who  is  entertained  in  farmers'  houses  and  country  shebeens 
in  memory  of  his  ancient  glory,  when  sesquipedalian  words 
and  cute  problems  in  arithmetic  made  him  the  monarch  of 
the  parish  next  to  the  priest  himself.  The  composer  takes 
his  ballads  to  the  publisher,  who  not  only  allows  him  no 
copyright,  but  does  not  even  make  a  discount  on  his  stock  in 
trade,  for  which  he  pays  the  same  as  his  brother  bards,  who, 
finding  his  ballad  popular,  straightway  strain  their  voices  to 
it.  But  then  he  has  the  same  privilege  with  their  -produc- 
tions, so  that  the  balance  is  even  in  the  long  run.  The  bal- 
lads are  printed  on  the  coarsest  of  paper,  with  the  poorest  of 
type,  and  generally  with  a  worn-out  wood-cut  of  the  most 
inappropriate  description  at  the  head. 

The  street  ballad  writers  are  of  course  a  decided  step 
downward  in  education  and  poetic  ability  from  the  hedge 
poets,  and  the  greater  portion  of  the  ballads  composed  in 
this  way  are  destitute  of  anything  like  poetry, —  mere  com- 
positions of  outrageous  metaphor  and  misapplied  long  words, 
for  which  last  the  ballad-singers  have  a  ridiculous  fondness. 
It  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  however,  that  the  successors  of  the 
hedge  poets  sing  in  what  is  in  a  measure  a  foreign  language. 
They  have  not  yet  fully  acquired  the  use  of  the  English  Ian- 


138   THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IRELAND. 

guage,  at  least  with  any  such  completeness  as  their  prede1 
cessors  had  of  their  sweet  and  mellifluous  native  tongue. 
It  sticks  upon  the  tongue  of  the  Irish  peasant  yet,  and,  as 
the  mother  of  William  Carleton,  the  novelist,  expressed  it, 
"  the  English  does  n't  melt  into  the  tune,  —  the  Irish  does." 
To  the  same  confusion  of  mythological  and  historical  imagery 
and  the  same  impulsive  abruptness  is  added  a  confusion  of 
the  meaning  of  words  and  a  misapplication  of  epithets,  and 
it  can  be  imagined  what  the  effect  must  be. 

But  among  a  people  natnrally  BO^loguent  and  poetic  as  the 
native  Irish,  not  even  the  drapery  of  an  incongruous  language 
can  entirely  obscure  the  native  vigor  and  strength  of  thought. 
A  ballad  is  sometimes  found  that,  though  unequal  and  rude, 
shows  an  impassioned  poetry,  fierce,  melancholy,  or  tender, 
and  it  almost  always  becomes  a  favorite  beyond  its  day,  and 
is  preserved  as  a  part  of  the  poetry  of  the  people.  These  are 
not  generally  the  productions  of  the  ballad-singers,  but  have 
a  more  genuine  merit  mark  as  emanating  directly  from  the 
people.  The  songs  of  Mr.  William  Allingham,  who  is  almost 
the  only  cultivated  poet  who  has  had  the  taste  to  reproduce 
in  diction  and  spirit  the  form  and  sentiment  of  the  peasant 
love  songs,  have  been  printed  on  the  ballad  sheet,  and  been 
sung  at  the  morning  milking  and  by  the  evening  hearth,  all 
over  Ireland.  "  The  Irish  Girl's  Lamentation  "  and  "  Lovely 
Mary  Donnelly"  have  become  a  part  of  the  songs  of  the 
country,  as  in  shape  and  language  they  were  intended  to  be. 
During  the  late  Fenian  disturbance  an  attempt  was  made  to 
influence  the  political  feelings  of  the  peasantry  by  their 
street  ballads,  the  poets  of  the  "  Nation  "  previous  to  the 
insurrection  of  1848  confining  themselves  to  appeals  to  the 
more  educated  class.  Mr.  Charles  J.  Kickham,  one  of  those 
arrested  for  participating  in  the  Fenian  movement,  wrote 
some  very  strong  and  effective  political  ballads,  which 
achieved  great  popularity  in  secret,  the  constabulary  keeping 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  139 

a  very  sharp  ear  for  evidences  of  treason  in  the  ballads  of  the 
street  singers.  Many  of  the  patriotic  or  seditious  ballads 
retain  the  allegorical  form  used  by  the  hedge  poets,  and  in 
addition  to  their  stock  of  personifications  of  Ireland,  the 
Shan  Van  Vogh,  or  Poor  Old  Woman,  which  had  its  origin 
in  a  song  written  just  before  the  rebellion  of  1798,  is  a  very 
great  favorite,  and  gives  expression  to  her  oracles  on  a  thou- 
sand subjects.  There  are  many  of  the  early  street  ballads 
about  Napoleon,  who  is  typified  as  the  Green  Linnet,  and 
who  took  the  place  of  Louis  XIV.  as  the  expected  redeemer  of 
Ireland,  and  whose  exile  in  St.  Helena  was  lamented  like  that 
of  an  Irish**chief.  O'Connell  succeeded  the  Pretender  in  the 
title  of  "  The  Blackbird,"  and  was  extolled  and  lamented  in 
a  thousand  ballads ;  as  later  has  his  successor,  Mr.  Parnell. 

The  love  songs  and  ballads  that  are  sung  by  the  colleens 
at  morning  and  evening  milking  or  by  the  winter's  hearth 
are  very  numerous,  and,  although  decidedly  inferior  to  those 
in  the  Celtic  language,  have  very  often  a  simple  sweetness  or 
a  touch  of  genius  in  expression  or  description,  which,  although 
seldom  sustained  throughout,  is  really  graphic.  The  follow- 
ing is  a  bit  of  vivid  description  :  — 

"  As  Katty  and  I  were  discoursing, 

She  smiled  on  me  now  and  then  ; 
Her  apron  string  she  kept  folding 
And  twisting  all  round  her  ring." 

It  is  from  a  ballad  called  "The  Maid  of  Lismore,"  almost 
the  only  one  noticed  in  a  collection  of  many  hundreds  con- 
taining any  blot  of  coarseness.  As  a  whole  they  are  remark- 
able for  a  purity  of  language,  as  well  as  subject,  to  a  degree 
uncommon  in  peasant  poetry.  Other  bits  of  graceful  ex- 
pression or  graphic  description  may  be  picked  out  of  the  love 
ballads :  — 

"  My  love  is  fairer  than  the  lilies  that  do  grow : 
She  has  a  voice  that  is  clearer  than  any  winds  that  blow." 


HO   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  With  mild  eyes  like  the  dawn." 

"  One  pleasant  evening,  when  pinks  and  daisies 
Closed  in  their  bosom  one  drop  of  dew." 

"  Her  hands  are  whiter  than  the  snow 

Upon  the  mountain  side, 
And  softer  than  the  creamy  foam 
That  floats  upon  the  tide." 

"  JT  was  on  a  bright  morning  in  summer 
I  first  heard  his  voice  speaking  low, 
As  he  said  to  the  colleen  beside  me 

'  Who 's  that  pretty  girl  milking  her  cow  ? ' " 

"  My  love  is  fairer  than  the  bright  summer  day, 
His  breath  i#  far  sweeter  than  the  new-mown  hay  ; 
His  hair  shines  like  gold  revived  by  the  sun, 
And  he  takes  his  denomination  from  the  Drinan  Don." 


A  great  number  of  these  ballads  relate  romantic  episodes, 
where  a  rich  young  nobleman's  son  courts  a  farmer's  daugh- 
ter in  disguise,  and  after  marriage  reveals  himself,  his  lineage, 
and  his  possessions  to  his  bride ;  or  where  a  noble  lady  fells 
in  love  with  a  tight  young  serving-boy,  and  bestows  on  him 
her  hand.  These  are  the  greatest  favorites  among  the  col- 
leens and  lads,  but  are  generally  inferior  to  the  love  ballads 
pure  and  simple,  bearing  too  strongly  the  impress  of  the  pro- 
fessional poet. 

The  "  lamentations,"  or  confessions  of  condemned  crimi- 
nals, are  highly  popular.  They  begin  in  the  first  person 
with  a  soliloquy  by  the  prisoner  on  his  unfortunate  condi- 
tion ;  then,  in  the  third  person  varying  at  will  to  the  first,  an 
account  is  given  of  the  tragedy,  concluding  with  a  lamenta- 
tion at  the  disgrace  brought  upon  his  decent  relatives,  and  a 
request  for  a  prayer  for  his  soul.  There  is  once  in  a  while 
a  touch  of  untaught  pathos ;  as,  — 


THE   STREET  BALLADS.  141 

"  The  anguish  of  a  troubled  heart  no  mortal  tongue  can  tell." 

"  His  mother  got  distracted,  and  fell  to  deep  despair, 
With  the  wringing  of  her  hands  and  tearing  of  her  hair." 

But  as  a  whole  they  are  the  production  of  hackneyed  poetas- 
ters, and  as  little  worth  preserving  as  the  "  Lives  "  of  eminent 
criminals  in  the  Newgate  Calendar.  Those  that  relate  to 
agrarian  murders,  like  that  of  Lord  Leitrim,  or  the  execution 
of  individuals  for  such  crimes,  in  which  the  sympathy  of  the 
people  would  be  against  the  law,  and  which  would  breathe 
a  stronger  spirit,  are  kept  secret,  or  at  least  not  sung  upon 
the  public -streets. 

The  narrative  ballads  tell  every  event  of  interest,  from 
affairs  at  the  Vatican  to  the  latest  steeple-chase  at  home, 
from  the  burning  of  an  emigrant  ship  to  a  plough  ing-match. 
Events  in  America  attract  great  attention.  During  the  late 
war  almost  every  great  battle  was  sung  by  the  ballad-sing- 
ers, particularly  those  in  which  Irish  regiments  or  brigades 
took  a  prominent  part ;  and  the  exploits  of  Generals  Corcoran 
and  Meagher,  and  the  glories  of  the  Sixty-ninth  Regiment 
and  the  Irish  Brigade,  were  celebrated  with  fervor.  The  acts 
of  the  substitute  brokers  in  enlisting  men  just  landed  re- 
ceived notice,  and  there  is  a  favorite  ballad  relating  "  The 
Glorious  Victory  of  Seven  Irishmen  over  Kidnapping  Yan- 
kees in  New  York,"  who  laid  out  with  their  invincible  black- 
thorns a  party  of  crimps,  who  endeavored  to  force  them  into 
the  army  after  pretending  to  engage  them  for  the  brick  field. 
The  Kuow-Nothing  agitation  attracted  attention,  and  the 
pulling  down  of  chapels  by  the  "  Infidel  New  Lights "  in 
America  was  the  subject  of  a  melancholy  chronicle. 

The  eulogies  of  person  or  place,  a  gentleman  or  his  de- 
mesne, or  both  combined,  are  innumerable,  and  in  them  the 
climax  of  absurdity  is  reached.  The  bards,  in  order  to  be 
properly  appreciated  by  the  gentry  to  whom  they  appealed, 


142      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

and  to  show  off  their  own  accomplishments,  used  the  longest 
words,  the  wildest  metaphors,  the  most  outrageous  anti- 
climaxes and  misapplied  epithets  possible  to  conceive,  and  the 
result  was  a  "  composition,"  as  they  were  fond  of  calling 
their  more  stately  productions,  utterly  beyond  burlesque. 
"  The  Groves  of  Blarney  "  was  written  with  the  avowed  inten- 
tion of  burlesquing  this  style  of  composition,  and  was  in 
close  parody  of  a  genuine  ballad ;  but  it  does  not  surpass 
many  of  the  originals  in  exquisite  absurdity,  nor  equal  in  its 
expressions  many  of  the  native  flowers  of  blunder.  The  fol- 
lowing is  a  verse  from  a  description  of  the  glories  of  the 
estate  of  Drishane,  which  is  not  far  from  Killarney  :  — 

"  There  's  a  mill  for  grinding  corn,  with  an  engine  ploughing  the 
farm, 

And  fine  oxen  that  are  stall-fed,  the  largest  to  be  found  ; 
In  its  farm-yard  heard  screaming  are  the  guinea-hen  and  peacock ; 

The  swan  upon  the  lake,  and  she  sailing  all  round. 
There  lime-kilns  are  kept  blazing  with  culm  most  unsparing, 

While  to  distant  lands'  reclaiming  that  same  has  been  drawn, 
And  quarrying  operations  so  loud  reverberating 

With  harmony  prevailing  through  the  plains  of  Drishane." 

There  is  a  class  of  street  ballads  of  a  very  unique  and 
striking  kind,  which  were  written  in  city  slang,  and  may  be 
called  gallows  poetry.  They  date  back  to  the  time  when 
hangings  were  much  more  common  than  now,  and  when  a 
week  scarcely  passed  in  the  metropolis  of  Dublin  without 
one  or  more  executions  in  front  of  Kilmainham  jail,  at  which 
all  the  rabble  in  the  city  attended  as  at  a  holiday  spectacle, 
and  where  the  criminal's  friends  gathered  to  lament  and 
sympathize,  and  to  take  pride  if  he  showed  bravery  in  his 
departure.  The  sympathy  of  the  crowd  was  nine  times  out 
of  ten  with  the  prisoner,  and  to  the  rabble  hanging  was  a 
common  and  hardly  a  disgraceful  mode  of  death.  The  corpse 
was  duly  waked  with  all  the  honors,  and  as  a  point  of  family 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  143 

and  class  pride  the  funeral  was  largely  attended.  Under 
these  circumstances  gallows  requiems  were  composed,  which 
in  one  or  two  instances  display  a  strength  and  representation 
of  criminal  sentiment  unrivalled  outside  of  the  lyrics  of 
Francis  Villon,  while  they  have  a  power  of  imagery  entirely 
unequalled  in  English  slang,  and  a  wild  pathos  in  the  midst 
of  boisterous  merriment.  Miss  Edgeworth  has  devoted  a 
chapter  in  her  Essay  on  Irish  Bulls  to  the  superiority  of  Irish 
over  English  slang  in  force  and  poetic  diction.  Most  of  the 
thieves'  patter  in  English  is  arbitrary  and  meaningless,  with 
words  invented  as  a  disguise  in  order  to  communicate  with 
each  other  without  enlightening  the  uninitiated.  Of  course 
there  is  frequently  a  word  whose  meaning  is  derived  from 
some  property  of  the  thing  described,  as  would  be  the  first 
and  most  natural  way  of  inventing  a  new  language ;  but  a 
large  proportion  of  English  thieves'  language  has  no  trace- 
able derivation,  and  the  Slang  Dictionary  adds  very  few  new 
and  forcible  terms  to  the  language.  It  is  quite  different 
with  Irish  slang,  many  of  its  phrases  being  poetical,  and 
almost  always  graphic  and  imaginative.  The  most  famous 
of  these  ballads  is  "  The  Night  before  Larry  was  Stretched," 
whose  symmetry  of  form  and  vivid  grotesqueness  of  ghastly 
merriment  and  inhuman  recklessness  have  given  it  a  place 
in  literature,  and  caused  it  to  be  ascribed  to  men  of  educa- 
tion and  accomplishment,  who  are  charged  with  having 
composed  it  as  a  sort  of  archaic  exercise  and  ebullition  of 
immorality  like  Balzac's  "Contes  Drolatiques."  But  the 
evidence  is  nearly  conclusive  that  it  was  a  genuine  street 
ballad,  and,  although  it  is  chief  among  its  kind,  there  are 
others  in  the  same  spirit  and  hardly  inferior  in  hideous  viv- 
idness. There  is  hardly  any  more  striking  evidence  of 
native  genius  and  representative  characteristics  of  circum- 
stance and  race,  than  the  productions  of  the  Irish  gallows 
poets. 


144      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   SHAN   VAN   VOGH. 

This  is  the  earliest  and  best  of  the  very  large  number  of  ballads  un- 
der the  name  of  "The  Shan  Van  Vogh,"  and  bears  evidence  of  hav- 
ing been  the  composition  of  some  one  of  a  superior  order  to  the  usual 
street  poets.  It  bears  date  about  1796,  when  the  French  were  expected 
to  land  an  invading  force. 

0,  THE  French  are  on  the  sea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh ; 
The  French  are  on  the  sea, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh ; 
0,  the  French  are  in  the  bay,* 
They  '11  be  here  without  delay 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
0,  the  French  are  in  the  bay, 
They  '11  be  here  by  break  of  day, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  1 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
Where  will  they,  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
On  the  Curragh  of  Kildare, 
The  boys  they  will  be  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
To  the  Curragh  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  will  repair, 
And  Lord  Edward  f  will  be  there, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

*  Bantry  Bay,  where  the  expedition  under  General  Hoche  attempted  to 
land,  but  was  driven  out  by  adverse  gales, 
t  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  145 

Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
What  should  the  yeomen  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they  '11  be  true 

To  the  Shan  Van  Vogh  ? 

What  should  the  yeomen  do,  etc. 

And  what  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
What  color  will  they  wear  1 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
What  color  should  be  seen 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been 
But  their  own  immortal  green  1 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

What  color  should  be  seen,  etc. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free  1 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 
Yes  !  Ireland  SHALL  be  free 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 
Then  hurrah  for  Liberty  ! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vogh. 

Yes !  Ireland  SHALL  be  free,  etc. 

10 


146      THE  POETS.  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   WEARING   OF   THE   GREEN. 

There  are  many  versions  of  the  famous  ""Wearing  of  the  Green,"  of 
which  the  following,  if  not  the  most  ancient  or  authentic,  is  one  of  the, 
best  and  most  spirited. 

0  PADDY  dear,  and  did  you  hear  the  news  that 's  goin'  round  1 
The  shamrock  is  forbid  by  law  to  grow  on  Irish  ground ; 

St.  Patrick's  day  no  more  we  '11  keep,  his  colors  can't  be  seen, 
For  there 's  a  bloody  law  agin  the  wearing  of  the  green. 

1  met  with  Napper  Tandy,*  and  he  took  me  by  the  hand, 
And  he  said,  "  How  's  poor  old  Ireland,  and  how  does  she 

stand?" 

She 's  the  most  distressful  country  that  ever  yet  was  seen, 
They  are  hanging  mefc  and  women  for  the  wearing  of  the 

greeii. 

Then  since  the  color  we  must  wear  is  England's  cruel  red, 
Sure  Ireland's  sons  will  ne'er  forget  the  blood  that  they  have 

shed. 
You  may  take  the  shamrock  from  your  hat  and  cast  it  on  the 

sod, 
But 't  will  take  root  and  flourish  still,  though  under  foot  it 's 

trod. 
When  law  can  stop  the  blades  of  grass  from  growing  as  they 

grow, 
And  when  the  leaves  in  summer-time  their  verdure  dare  not 

show, 

Then  I  will  change  the  color  that  I  wear  in  my  caubeen, 
But  till  that  day,  please  God,  I  '11  stick  to  wearing  of  the 

green. 

*  James  Napper  Tandy,  one  of  the  commanders  of  the  Irish  Volunteers, 
and  afterwards  an  exile  upon  the  Continent. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  147 

But  if  at  last  our  color  should  be  torn  from  Ireland's  heart, 
Her  sons  with  shame  and  sorrow  from  the  dear  old  isle  will 

.part; 
I  've  heard  a  whisper  of  a  country  that  lies  far  beyond  the 

sea, 
Where  rich  and  poor  stand  equal  in  the  light  of  freedom's 

day; 

0  Erin,  must  we  leave  you,  driven  by  a  tyrant's  hand  ? 
Must  we  ask  a  mother's  blessing  from  a  strange  though  happy 

laud, 
Where  the  cruel  cross  of  England's  thraldom  never  shall  be 

seen, 
And  where,  please  God,  we  '11  live  and  die  still  wearin'  of  the 

green  ? 


THE  BANTRY  GIRL'S  LAMENT  FOR  JOHNNY. 

The  following  spirited  and  humorous  "  lament "  is  taken  from  "  The 
Banks  of  the  Boro,"  by  Patrick  Kennedy,  a  story  which  gives  with  re- 
markable faithfulness  and  minuteness  the  incidents  of  Irish  country 
life.  It  is  given  with  a  number  of  other  specimens  of  peasant  poetry. 

0,  WHO  will  plough  the  field,  or  who  will  sell  the  corn  ? 
0,  who  will  wash  the  sheep,  an'  have  'em  nicely  shorn  1 
The  stack  that 's  in  the  haggard  unthrashed  it  may  remain, 
Since  Johnny  went  a  thrashin'  the  dirty  king  o'  Spain. 

The  girls  from  the  bawnoge  in  sorrow  may  retire, 

And  the  piper  and  his  bellows  may  go  home  and  blow  the 

fire; 

For  Johnny,  lovely  Johnny,  is  sailin'  o'er  the  main, 
Along  with  other  pathriarchs,  to  fight  the  king  o'  Spain. 


148      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  boys  will  sorely  miss  him,  when  Moneyhore  comes  round, 
And  grieve  that  their  bould  captain  is  nowhere  to  be  found ; 
The  peelers  must  stand  idle  against  their  will  and  grain, 
For  the  valiant  boy  who  gave  them  work  now  peels  the  king 
o'  Spain. 

At  wakes  or  hurling-matches  your  like  we  '11  never  see, 
Till  you  come  back  again  to  us  astore,  gra-gal-machree  ; 
And  won't  you  throunce  the  buckeens  that  shows  us  much 

disdain, 
Bekase  our  eyes  are  not  so  black  as  those  you'll  meet  in 

Spain. 

If  cruel  fate  will  not  permit  our  Johnny  to  return, 

His  heavy  loss  we  Bantry  girls  will  never  cease  to  mourn ; 

We  '11  resign  ourselves  to  our  sad  lot,  and  die  in  grief  and 

pain, 
Since  Johnny  died  for  Ireland's  pride  in  the  foreign  land  of 

Spain. 


WILLY  REILLY. 

No  collection  of  Irish  street  ballads  would  be  complete  without 
"  "Willy  Reilly,"  which  has  been  a  universal  favorite  for  many  years, 
and  lost  none  of  its  popularity  at  the  present  day. 

"  0,  RISE  up,  Willy  Reilly,  and  come  along  with  me, 

I  mean  for  to  go  with  you  and  leave  this  counterie, 

To  leave  my  father's  dwelling-place,  his  houses  and  free  land," 

And  away  goes  Willy  Reilly  and  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

They  go  by  hills  and  mountains,  and  by  yon  lonesome  plain, 
Through  shady  groves  and  valleys,  all  dangers  to  refrain ; 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  149 

But  her  father  followed  after  with  a  well-armed  band, 
And  taken  was  poor  Reilly  and  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

It 's  home  then  she  was  taken  and  in  her  closet  bound  : 
Poor  Reilly  all  in  Sligo  jail  lay  on  the  stony  ground, 
Till  at  the  bar  of  justice  before  the  judge  he  'd  stand, 
For  nothing  but  the  stealing  of  his  dear  Colleen  Bawn. 

"  Now  in  the  cold,  cold  iron,  my  hands  and  feet  are  bound, 
I  'm  handcuffed  like  a  murderer,  and  tied  unto  the  ground ; 
But  all  the  toil  and  slavery  I  'm  willing  for  to  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored  by  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

The  jailer's  son  to  Reilly  goes,  and  thus  to  him  did  say: 
"  0,  get  up  William  Reilly,  you  must  appear  this  day, 
For  great  Squire  Foillard's  anger  you  never  can  withstand : 
I'  m  afeared  you  '11  suffer  sorely  for  your  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

Now  Willy 's  dressed  from  top  to  toe  all  in  a  suit  of  green, 
His  hair  hangs  o'er  his  shoulders  most  glorious  to  be  seen  : 
He 's  tall  and  straight  and  comely  as  any  to  be  found,  — 
He 's  fit  for  Foillard's  daughter,  was  she  heiress  to  a  crown. 

"  This  is  the  news,  young  Reilly,  last  night  that  I  did  hear, 
The  lady's  oath  will  hang  you,  or  else  will  set  you  clear." 
"  If  that  be  so,"  says  Reilly,  "  her  pleasure  I  will  stand, 
Still  hoping  to  be  succored  by  my  dear  Colleen  Bawn." 

The  judge  said,  "  This  lady  being  in  her  tender  youth, 
If  Reilly  has  deluded  her,  she  will  declare  the  truth." 
Then  like  a  moving  beauty  bright  before  him  she  did  stand, 
"  You  're  welcome  there,  my  heart's  delight,  and  dear  Colleen 
Bawn." 


150   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  0  gentlemen,"  Squire  Foillard  said,  "  with  pity  look  on  me ! 
This  villain  came  amongst  us  to  disgrace  our  family, 
And  by  his  base  contrivances  this  villany  was  planned  j 
If  I  don't  get  satisfaction,  I  '11  quit  this  Irish  land." 

The  lady  with  a  tear  began,  and  thus  replied  she : 
"  The  fault  is  none  of  Reilly's,  the  blame  lies  all  on  me ; 
I  forced  him  for  to  leave  his  place  and  come  along  with  me, 
I  loved  him  out  of  measure,  which  wrought  our  destiny." 

Out  bespoke  the  noble  Fox,  at  the  table  he  stood  by : 

"  0  gentlemen,  consider  on  this  extremity ! 

To  hang  a  man  for  love  is  a  murder,  you  may  see ; 

So  spare  the  life  of  Reilly,  let  him  leave  this  counterie." 


"  Good  my  lord,  he  stole  from  her  her  diamonds  and  her 

rings, 

Gold  watch  and  silver  buckles,  and  many  precious  things, 
Which  cost  me  in  bright  guineas  more  than  five  hundred 

pounds : 
I  '11  have  the  life  of  Reilly  should  I  lose  ten  thousand  pounds." 

"  Good  my  lord,  I  gave  them  him  as  tokens  of  true  love, 
And  when  we  are  a-parting  I  will  them  all  remove. 
If  you  have  got  them,  Reilly,  pray  send  them  home  to  me." 
"  I  will,  my  loving  lady,  with  many  thanks  to  thee." 

"  There  is  a  ring  among  them  I  allow  yourself  to  wear, 
With  thirty  locket  diamonds  well  set  in  silver  fair, 
And  as  a  true-love  token  wear  it  on  your  right  hand, — 
That  you  '11  think  on  my  poor  broken  heart  when  you  're  in 
a  foreign  land." 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  151 

Then  outspoke  noble  Fox  :  "  You  may  let  the  prisoner  go,  — 
The  lady's  oath  has  cleared  him,  as  the  jury  all  may  know ; 
She  has  released  her  own  true  love,  she  has  renewed  his  name. 
May  her  honor  bright  gain  high  estate,  and  her  offspring  rise 
to  fame!" 


THE   GLASS   OF   WHISKEY. 

This  ballad,  in  spite  of  its  forced  blunders  and  clumsy  attempts  at 
humor,  has  a  hopeless  merriment  and  a  despairing  kind-heartedness 
exceedingly  affecting  and  characteristic  of  that  element  in  Irish  humor 
which  is  often  more  touching  and  melancholy  than  the  profoundest 
lamentation  of  a  set  purpose.  Its  subject  was  an  actual  mendicant, 
whose  begging  station  was  at  the  bridge  of  Drumcondra,  a  small  village 
near  Dublin. 

AT  the  side  of  the  road,  near  the  bridge  of  Drumcondra, 

Was  Murrough  O'Monaghan  stationed  to  beg : 
He  brought  from  the  wars,  as  his  share  of  the  plunder, 

A  crack  on  the  crown  and  the  loss  of  a  leg. 
"  Oagh,  Murrough ! "    he  'd   cry ;  —  "  musha    nothing   may 
harm  ye ! 

What  made  you  go  fight  for  a  soldier  on  sea  ? 
You  fool,  had  you  been  a  marine  in  the  army, 

You  'd  now  have  a  pinchun  and  live  on  full  pay." 

"  But  now  I'm  a  cripple,  — what  signifies  thinking? 

The  past  I  can  never  bring  round  to  the  fore ; 
The  heart  that  with  old  age  and  weakness  is  sinking 

Will  ever  find  strength  in  good  whiskey  galore. 
Oagh,  whiskey,  mavourneen,  my  joy  and  my  jewel ! 

What  signifies  talking  of  doctors  and  pills  1 
In  sorrow,  misfortune,  and  sickness  so  cruel, 

A  glass  of  north  country  can  cure  all  our  ills. 


152      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  When  cold  in  the  winter  it  warms  you  so  hearty ; 

When  hot  in  the  summer  it  cools  you  like  ice ; 
In  trouble,  false  friends,  without  grief  I  can  part  ye ; 

Good  whiskey 's  my  friend,  and  I  take  its  advice. 
When  'hungry  and  thirsty,  't  is  meat  and  drink  to  me ; 

It  finds  me  a  lodging  wherever  I  lie  j 
Neither  frost,  snow,  nor  rain  any  harm  can  do  me, 

The  hedge  is  my  pillow,  my  blanket  the  sky. 

"  Now  merry  be  the  Christmas !  success  to  good  neighbors  ! 

Here  's  a  happy  new  year  and  a  great  many  too  ! 
With  a  plenty  of  whiskey  to  lighten  their  labors, 

May  sweet  luck  attend  every  heart  that  is  true  ! " 
Poor  Murrough  then,  joining  his  old  hands  together, 

High  held  up  the  glass,  while  he  vented  this  prayer : 
"  May  whiskey,  by  sea  or  by  land  in  all  weather, 

Be  never  denied  to  the  children  of  care ! " 


ON   THE  COLLEEN   BAWN. 

This  is  from  a  bunch  of  Dublin  street  ballads  of  the  present  day, 
but  its  date  of  composition  is  of  course  uncertain. 

IN  the  gold  vale  of  Limerick, 

Beside  the  Shannon  stream, 
The  maiden  lives  who  holds  my  heart, 

And  haunts  me  like  a  dream, 
With  shiny  showers  of  golden  hair 

And  gentle  as  a  fawn, 
The  cheeks  that  make  the  red  rose  pale, 

My  darling  Colleen  Bawn. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  153 

Although  she  seldom  speaks  to  me, 

I  think  on  her  with  pride ; 
For  five  long  years  I  courted  her, 

And  asked  her  to  be  my  bride. 
But  dreary  times  of  cold  neglect 

Are  all  from  her  I  've  drawn. 
For  I  am  but  a  laboring  boy, 

And  she  the  Colleen  Bawn. 

Her  hands  are  whiter  than  the  snow 

Upon  the  mountain  side, 
And  softer  than  the  creamy  foam 

That  floats  upon  the  tide ; 
Her  eyes  are  brighter  than  the  snow 

That  sparkles  on  the  lawn ; 
The  sunshine  of  my  life  is  she, 

The  darling  Colleen  Bawn. 

To  leave  old  Ireland  far  behind 

Is  often  in  my  mind, 
And  wander  for  another  bride 

And  country  for  to  find, 
But  that  I  've  seen  a  low  suitor 

Upon  her  footsteps  fawn, 
Which  keeps  me  near  to  guard  my  dear, 

My  darling  Colleen  Bawn. 

Her  beauty  very  far  excels 

All  other  females  fine ; 
She  is  far  brighter  than  the  sun 

That  does  upon  us  shine ; 
Each  night  she  does  disturb  my  rest, 

I  cannot  sleep  till  dawn, 
Still  wishing  her  to  be  my  bride,     , 

My  darling  Colleen  Bawn. 


154   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  women  of  Limerick  take  the  sway 

Throughout  old  Erin's  shore  ; 
They  fought  upon  the  city  walls, 

They  did  in  days  of  yore. 
They  kept  away  the  enemy 

All  night  until  the  dawn  : 
Most  worthy  of  the  title  is 

My  darling  Colleen  Bawn. 


MY  CONNOR. 

There  is  another  song  with  this  pleasing  refrain,  but  this  is  the  sim- 
plest and  best. 

OH,  weary 's  on  money  and  weary 's  on  wealth, 

And  sure  we  don't  want  them  while  we  have  our  health : 

7T  was  they  tempted  Connor  far  over  the  sea, 

And  I  lost  my  lover,  my  cushla  ma  chree, 

Smiling  —  beguiling, 

Cheering  —  endearing, 
0,  dearly  I  loved  him  and  he  loved  me  ! 

By  each  other  delighted  — 

And  fondly  united  — 
My  heart 's  in  the  grave  with  my  cushla  ma  chree. 

My  Connor  was  handsome,  good-humored,  and  tall ; 
At  hurling  or  dancing  the  best  of  them  all. 
But  when  he  came  courting  beneath  our  old  tree, 
His  voice  was  like  music,  —  my  cushla  ma  chree. 
Smiling  —  beguiling,  etc. 

So  true  was  his  heart  and  so  artless  his  mind, 
He  could  not  think  ill  of  the  worst  of  mankind. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  155 

He  went  bail  for  his  cousin,  who  ran  beyond  sea, 
And  all  his  debts  fell  on  my  cushla  ma  chree. 
Smiling  —  beguiling,  etc. 

Yet  still  I  told  Connor  that  I  'd  be  his  bride,  — 
In  sorrow  or  death  not  to  stir  from  his  side. 
He  said  he  could  ne'er  bring  misfortune  on  me ;  — 
But  sure  I  'd  be  rich  with  my  cushla  ma  chree. 
Smiling  — ?  beguiling,  etc. 

The  morning  he  left  us  I  ne'er  will  forget  j 
Not  an  eye  in  our  village  with  tears  but  was  wet. 
"  Don't  cry  any  more,  0  mavourneen,"  said  he. 
"  For  I  will  return  to  my  cushla  ma  chree." 
Smiling  —  beguiling,  etc. 

Sad  as  I  felt  then,  hope  was  mixed  with  my  care,  — 
Alas  !  I  have  nothing  now  left  but  despair. 
His  ship  it  went  down  in  the  midst  of  the  sea, 
And  its  wild  waves  roll  over  my  cushla  ma  chree. 
Smiling  —  beguiling,  etc. 


THE   DEAR   AND    DARLING   BOY. 

This  is  from  a  bunch  of  modern  ballads,  but  evidently,  from  the  use 
of  the  term  "French  Flanders,  "of  considerable  antiquity  of  composition 

WHEN  first  unto  this  town  I  came, 

With  you  I  fell  in  love, 
And  if  I  could  but  gain  you 

I  'd  vow  I  '11  never  rove. 
There  's  not  a  girl  in  all  this  town 

I  love  as  well  as  thee. 
I  '11  rowl  you  in  my  arms, 

My  cushla  gal  ma  chree. 


156      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

My  love  she  won't  come  nigh  me, 

Nor  hear  the  moan  I  make  ; 
Neither  would  she  pity  me 

Tho'  my  poor  heart  should  break. 
If  I  was  born  of  noble  blood, 

And  she  of  low  degree, 
She  would  hear  my  lamentation, 

And  surely  pity  me. 

The  ship  is  on  the  ocean, 

Now  ready  for  to  sail. 
If  the  wind  blew  from  the  east, 

With  a  sweet  and  pleasant  gale ; 
If  the  wind  blew  from  my  love 

With  a  sweet  and  pleasant  sound, 
It's  for  your  sake,  my  darling  girl, 

I  'd  range  the  nations  round. 

Nine  months  we  are  on  the  ocean, 

No  harbor  can  we  spy. 
We  sailed  from  the  French  Flanders 

To  harbors  that  were  nigh. 
We  sailed  from  the  French  Flanders 

To  harbors  that  were  nigh. 

0,  fare  you  well,  my  darling  girl, 

Since  you  and  I  must  part ! 
It 's  the  bright  beams  of  your  beauty 

That  stole  away  my  heart. 
But  since  it  is  my  lot,  my  love, 

To  say  that  I  must  go, 
Bright  angels  be  your  safeguard 

Till  my  return  home. 


THE   STEEET  BALLADS.  157 


DEIMMIN   DUBH   DHEELISH. 

The  peasant  thus  laments  the  drowning  of  his  dear  black  cow.    The 
ballad  is  quite  an  old  one. 

0,  THERE  was  a  poor  man, 

And  he  had  but  one  cow, 
And  when  he  had  lost  her 

He  could  not  tell  how, 
But  so  white  was  her  face, 

And  so  sleek  was  her  tail, 
That  I  thought  my  poor  drimmin  dubh 
Never  would  fail. 

Agus  oro,  Drimmin  dubh  ! 

Oro,  ah. 

Oro,  drimmin  dubh, 
Miel  agra. 

Returning  from  mass, 

On  a  morning  in  May, 
I  met  my  poor  drimmin  dubh 

Drowning  by  the  way. 
I  roared  and  I  bawled, 

And  my  neighbors  did  call, 
To  save  my  poor  drimmin  dubh, 

She  being  my  all. 

Ah,  neighbors !  was  this  not 

A  sorrowful  day, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  water 

Where  my  drimmin  dubh  lay? 
With  a  drone  and  a  drizzen, 

She  bade  me  adieu, 
And  the  answer  I  made 

Was  a  loud  pillelu. 


158      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Poor  drimmin  dubh  sank, 

And  I  saw  her  no  more, 
Till  I  came  to  an  island 

Was  close  by  the  shore ; 
And  down  on  that  island 

I  saw  her  again, 
Like  a  bunch  of  ripe  blackberries 

Rolled  in  the  rain. 

Arrah,  plague  take  you,  drimmin  dubh  J 

What  made  you  die, 
Or  why  did  you  leave  me, 

For  what  and  for  why  ? 
I  would  rather  loose  Paudeen, 

My  bouchelleen  baun, 
Than  part  with  my  drimmin  dubh 

Now  that  you  're  gone. 

When  drimmin  dubh  lived, 

And  before  she  was  dead, 
She  gave  me  fresh  butter 

To  eat  to  my  bread, 
And  likewise  new  milk 

That  I  soaked  with  my  scone  * ; 
But  now  it 's  black  water 

Since  drimmin  dubh 's  gone. 

*  Oaten  cake  baked  on  the  griddle. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  159 

TUBBER-NA-SHIE : 

OR,  THE  FAIRY  WELL. 

0,  PEGGY  BAWN  was  innocent, 

And  wild  as  any  roe ; 
Her  cheek  was  like  the  summer  rose, 

Her  neck  was  like  the  snow ; 

And  every  eye  was  in  her  head 

So  beautiful  and  bright, 
You  'd  almost  think  they  'd  light  her  through 

Glencarrigy  by  night. 

Among  the  hills  and  mountains, 

Above  her  mother's  home, 
The  long  and  weary  summer  day 

Young  Peggy  Blake  would  roam. 

And  not  a  girl  in  the  town, 

From  Dhua  to  Glenlur, 
Could  wander  through  the  mountain's  heath 

Or  climb  the  rocks  with  her. 

The  Lammas  sun  was  shinin'  on 

The  meadows  all  so  brown  ; 
The  neighbors  gathered  far  and  near 

To  cut  the  ripe  crops  down. 

And  pleasant  was  the  mornin', 

And  dewy  was  the  dawn, 
And  gay  and  lightsome-hearted 

To  the  sunny  fields  they  're  gone. 


160   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  joke  was  passing  lightly, 

And  the  laugh  was  loud  and  free  ; 

There  was  neither  care  nor  trouble 
To  disturb  their  hearty  glee. 

When  says  Peggy,  resting  in  among 

The  sweet  and  scented  hay, 
"  I  wonder  is  there  one  would  brave 

The  Fairy  well  to-day." 

She  looked  up  with  her  laughin'  eyes, 

So  soft,  at  Willy  Rhu  ; 
Och,  murder  !  that  she  did  n't  heed 

His  warnin'  kind  and  true  ! 

But  all  the  boys  and  girls  laughed, 

And  Willy  Rhu  looked  shy ; 
God  help  you,  Willy  !  sure  they  seen 

The  throuble  in  your  eye. 

"  Now,  by  my  faith,"  young  Connell  says, 

"  I  like  your  notion  well,  — 
There  's  a  power  more  than  gospel 

In  what  crazy  gossips  tell." 

0,  my  heavy  hatred  fall  upon 
Young  Connell  of  Slier-mast ! 

He  took  the  cruel  vengeance 
For  his  scorned  love  at  last. 

The  jokin'  and  the  gibin' 

And  the  banterin'  went  on ; 
One  girl  dared  another, 

And  they  all  dared  Peggy  Bawn. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  161 

Till,  leaping  up,  away  she  flew 

Down  to  the  hollow  green, 
Her  bright  locks,  floating  in  the  wind, 

Like  golden  lights  were  seen. 

They  saw  her  at  the  Fairy  well,  — 

Their  laughin'  died  away ; 
They  saw  her  stoop  above  its  brink 

With  hearts  as  cold  as  clay. 

0  mother,  mother  !  never  stand 

Upon  your  cabin  floor ; 
You  heard  the  cry  that  through  your  heart 

Will  ring  for  evermore  ; 

For  when  she  came  up  from  the  well, 

No  one  could  stand  her  look ; 
Her  eye  was  wild,  —  her  cheek  was  pale,  — 

They  saw  her  mind  was  shook. 

And  the  gaze  she  cast  around  her 

Was  so  ghastly  and  so  sad, 
"  0,  Christ  preserve  us  ! "  shouted  all, 

"  Poor  Peggy  Blake  's  gone  mad." 

The  moon  was  up,  the  stars  were  out, 

And  shining  through  the  sky, 
When  young  and  old  stood  mourning  round 

To  see  their  darling  die. 

Poor  Peggy  from  the  death-bed  rose  : 

Her  face  was  pale  and  cold, 
And  down  about  her  shoulders  hung 

Her  lovely  locks  of  gold. 
11 


162      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  All  you  that 's  here  this  night,"  she  said, 

"  Take  warnin'  by  my  fate  : 
Whoever  braves  the  Fairies'  wrath, 

Their  sorrow  comes  too  late." 

The  tear  was  startin'  in  her  eye, 
She  clasped  her  throbbin'  head, 

And  when  the  sun  next  mornin'  rose, 
Poor  Peggy  Bawn  lay  dead. 


BY  MEMORY   INSPIRED. 

A  street  ballad  published  shortly  after  the  collapse  of  the  insurrection 
of  1848.    It  is  sung  to  the  air  of  the  Cruiskeen  Lawn. 

BY  memory  inspired, 

And  love  of  country  fired, 
The  deeds  of  men  I  love  to  dwell  upon. 

And  the  patriotic  glow 

Of  my  spirit  must  bestow 

A  tribute  to  O'Connell  that  is  gone,  boys,  gone  ! 
Here 's  a  memory  to  the  friends  that  are  gone  ! 

*  In  October,  'ninety-seven  — 

May  his  soul  find  rest  in  heaven !  — 

William  Orr  to  execution  was  led  on. 
The  jury,  drunk,  agreed 
That  Irish  was  his  creed, 

For  perjury  and  threats  drove  them  on,  boys,  on  ! 

Here  's  the  memory  of  John  Mitchell  that  is  gone  ! 

In  'ninety-eight  —  the  month  of  July, 
The  informer's  pay  was  high ; 
When  Reynolds  gave  the  gallows  brave  McCann. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  163 

But  McCann  was  Reynolds'  first,  — 

One  could  not  allay  his  thirst,  — 

So  he  brought  up  Bond  and  Byrne,  that  are  gone,  boys,  gone. 
Here  's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone ! 

We  saw  a  nation's  tears, 

Shed  for  John  and  Henry  Sheares, 
Betrayed  by  Judas,  Captain  Armstrong. 

We  may  forgive,  but  yet 

We  never  can  forget 

The  poisoning  of  Maguire,  that  is  gone,  boys,  gone  ! 
Our  high  star  and  true  apostle  that  is  gone. 

How  did  Lord  Edward  die  1 

Like  a  man  without  a  sigh  : 
He  left  his  handiwork  on  Major  Swan  ! 

But  Sirr  with  steel-clad  breast, 

And  coward  heart  at  best, 

Left  us  cause  to  mourn  Lord  Edward,  that  is  gone,  boys,  gone ! 
Here 's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone  ! 

September,  eighteen-three, 

Closed  this  cruel  history, 
When  Emmet's  blood  the  scaffold  flowed  upon. 

0,  had  their  spirits  been  wise, 

They  might  then  realize 
Their  freedom  !  —  But  we  drink  to  Mitchell  that  is  gone,  boys, 

gone. 
Here 's  the  memory  of  the  friends  that  are  gone  ! 


164      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   IRISHMAN'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS   COUNTRY. 

The  following  powerful  ballad  made  its  appearance  during  the  time 
of  the  Fenian  excitement,  in  1865,  when  the  peasants  expected  an  ex- 
pedition from  the  Irish  in  the  United  States. 

OH  !  farewell,  Ireland,  I  am  going  across  the  stormy  main, 
Where  cruel  strife  will  end  my  life,  to  see  you  never  again. 
'T  will  break  my  heart  from  you  to  part,  acushla  store  machree  ! 
But  I  must  go  full  of  grief  and  woe  to  the  shores  of  America. 

On  Irish  soil  my  fathers  dwelt  since  the  days  of  Brian  Boru. 

They  paid  their  rent  and  lived  content,  convenient  to  Carrie- 
more. 

But  the  landlord  sent  on  the  move  my  poor  father  and  me  : 

We  must  leave  our  home  far  away  to  roam  in  the  fields  of 
America. 

No  more  at  the  churchyard,  store  machree,  at  my  mother's 

grave  I  '11  kneel. 

The  tyrants  know  but  little  of  the  woe  the  poor  man  has  to  feel. 
When  I  look  on  the  spot  of  ground  that  is  so  dear  to  me, 
I  could  curse  the  laws  that  have  given  me  cause  to  depart 

to  America. 

0,  where  are  the  neighbors,  kind  and  true,  that  were  once 

the  country's  pride  ? 
No  more  will  they  be  seen  on  the  face  of  the  green,  nor  dance 

on  the  green  hillside. 
It  is  the  stranger's  cow  that  is  grazing  now,  where  the  people 

we  used  to  see. 
With  notice  they  were  served,  to  be  turned  out  or  starved,  or 

banished  to  America. 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  165 

0,  Erin  machree,  must  our  children  be  exiled  all  over  the 

earth  1 
Will  they  evermore  think  of  you,  astore,  as  the  land  that  gave 

them  birth  ? 
Must  the   Irish  yield  to  the  beasts  of  the  field?    0,  no, 

acushla  store  machree! 
They  are  coming  back  in  ships  with  vengeance  on  their  lips 

from  the  shores  of  America. 


PATRICK   SHEEHAK 

This  ballad,  exactly  in  the  style  of  the  street  poets,  was  written  by 
Charles  J.  Kickham  for  the  purpose  of  discouraging  enlistments  in  the 
British  army,  and  immediately  became  very  popular. 

MY  name  is  Patrick  Sheehan, 

My  years  are  thirty-four, 
Tipperary  is  my  native  place, 

Not  far  from  Galtymore  ; 
I  came  of  honest  parents,  — 

But  now  they  're  lying  low,  — 
And  many  a  pleasant  day  I  spent 

In  the  glen  of  Aherlow. 

My  father  died  :  I  closed  his  eyes 

Outside  our  cabin  door ; 
The  landlord  and  the  sheriff  too 

Were  there  the  day  before ; 
And  there  my  loving  mother 

And  sisters  three  also 
Were  forced  to  go  with  broken  hearts 

From  the  glen  of  Aherlow. 


166       THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

For  three  long  months  in  search  of  work 

I  wandered  far  and  near ; 
I  went  then  to  the  poor-house 

For  to  see  my  mother  dear ; 
The  news  I  heard  nigh  broke  my  heart ; 

But  still,  in  all  my  woe, 
I  blessed  the  friends  who  made  their  graves 

In  the  glen  of  Aherlow. 

Bereft  of  home  and  kith  and  kin, 

With  plenty  all  around, 
I  starved  within  my  cabin, 

And  slept  upon  the  ground. 
But  cruel  as  my  lot  was, 

I  ne'er  did  hardship  know, 
Till  I  joined  the  English  army, 

Far  away  from  Aherlow. 

"  Rouse  up,  there,"  says  the  corporal, 

"  You  lazy  Hirish  'ound ! 
Why  don't  you  hear,  you  sleepy  dog, 

The  call  to  arms  sound  ! " 
Alas !  I  had  been  dreaming 

Of  days  long,  long  ago  : 
I  woke  before  Sebastopol, 

And  not  in  Aherlow. 

I  groped  to  find  my  musket,  — 
How  dark  I  thought  the  night ! 

0  blessed  God  !  it  was  not  dark, 
It  was  the  broad  daylight. 

And  when  I  found  that  I  was  blind, 
My  tears  began  to  flow  : 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  167 

I  longed  for  even  a  pauper's  grave 
In  the  glen  of  Aherlow. 

0  blessed  Virgin  Mary, 

Mine  is  a  mournful  tale  : 
A  poor  blind  prisoner  here  I  am, 

In  Dublin's  dreary  jail, 
Struck  blind  within  the  trenches, 

Where  I  never  feared  the  foe ; 
And  now  I  '11  never  see  again 

The  glen  of  Aherlow. 

A  poor  neglected  mendicant 

I  wandered  through  the  street ; 
My  nine  months'  pension  now  being  out, 

I  beg  from  all  I  meet. 
As  I  joined  my  country's  tyrants, 

My  face  I  '11  never  show 
Among  the  kind  old  neighbors 

In  the  glen  of  Aherlow. 

Then  Irish  youths,  dear  countrymen ! 

Take  heed  of  what  I  say; 
For  if  you  join  the  English  ranks 

You  '11  surely  rue  the  day. 
And  whenever  you  are  tempted 

A  soldiering  to  go, 
Remember  poor  blind  Sheehan 

Of  the  glen  of  Aherlow. 


168      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

MY   ULICK. 
CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM. 

MY  ULICK  is  sturdy  and  strong, 

And  light  is  his  foot  on  the  heather, 
And  truth  has  been  wed  to  his  tongue 

Since  first  we  were  talking  together. 
And  though  he  is  lord  of  no  lands, 

Nor  castle,  nor  cattle,  nor  dairy, 
My  Ulick  has  health  and  his  hands, 

And  a  heart-load  of  love  for  his  Mary,  — 
And  what  could  a  maiden  wish  more ) 

One  night  at  the  heel  of  the  eve,  — 

I  mind  it  was  snowing  and  blowing,  — 
My  mother  was  knitting,  I  b'leeve, 

For  me  I  was  sitting  and  sewing ; 
My  father  had  read  o'er  the  news, 

And  sat  there  a  humming,  "  We  '11  wake  him," 
When  Ulick  stepped  in  at  the  door, 

As  white  as  the  weather  could  make  him :  — 
True  love  never  cooled  with  the  frost. 

He  shook  the  snow  out  from  his  frieze, 

And  drew  a  chair  up  to  my  father, 
My  heart  lifted  up  to  my  eyes 

To  see  the  two  sitting  together ; 
They  talked  of  our  isle  and  her  wrongs 

Till  both  were  as  mad  as  starvation : 
Then  Ulick  sang  three  or  four  songs, 

And  closed  with  "  Hurra  for  the  Nation  ! "  — 
0,  Ulick,  an  Irishman'  still ! 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  169 

My  father  took  him  by  the  hand, 

Their  hearts  melted  into  each  other ; 
While  tears  that  she  could  not  command 

Broke  loose  from  the  eyes  of  my  mother. 
"Ah,  Freedom  !  "  she  cried,  "wirra  sthrue, 

A  woman  can  say  little  in  it ; 
But  were  it  to  come  by  you  two, 

I  Ve  a  guess  at  the  way  you  would  win  it,  — 
It  would  not  be  by  weeping,  I  swear." 


THE  IRISH   GRANDMOTHER. 

The  following  spirited  ballad  made  its  appearance  during  the  agita- 
tion and  distress  of  the  winter  of  1879.  It  was  first  published  in  the 
Dublin  Nation  over  the  signature  In  Fide  Fortis,  and  afterward  printed 
as  a  street  ballad. 

PADDY  agra,  run  down  to  the  bog,  for  my  limbs  are  begin- 
ning to  tire, 
And  see  if  there 's  ever  a  sod  at  all  that 's  dry  enough  for  a 

fire  : 
God  be  praised  !  it 's  terrible  times,  and  granny  is  weak  and 

old, 
And  the  praties  black  as  the  winter's  face,  and  the  nights  so 

dark  and  cold  ! 
It 's  many  a  day  since  I  seen  the  like,  but  I  did  one,  Pat, 

asthore, 
And  I  prayed  to  God  on  my  bended  knees  I  might  never 

see  it  more. 
'T  was   the   year   before  the   Risin'  of  Smith  O'Brien,  you 

know, 
Thirty-two  years  ago,  Paddy,  —  thirty-two  years  ago. 


170      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Your  grandfather  —  God  rest  his  soul !  —  went  out  with  the 

boys  to  fight ; 
For  the  bailiffs  came  with  the  crowbars,  and  the  sickness 

came  with  the  blight, 
An'  he  said  it  was  better  to  die  like  a  man,  though  he  held 

but  a  rusty  pike, 
Than  starve  on  the  roadside,  beggin'  for  food,  an'  be  thrown 

like  a  dog  in  the  dike. 


Ochone,  ochone!  it's  a  sorrowful  tale,  but  listen  afore  you 

go, 
For  Tim  he  never  came  back  to  me,  but  I  '11  see  him  soon,  I 

know. 
Tim  Ryan  he  held  a  decent   farm    in   the  glen  o'   Cahir- 

more, 
And  he  tilled  the  lands  the  Ryans  owned  two  hundred  years 

before ; 
An'  it 's  many  a  time,  by  the  blazing  fire,  I  heard  from  the 

priest,  Father  John 
(He  was  my  husband's  cousin,  agra,  and  he  lived    to  be 

ninety-one), 

That  the  Ryans  were  chiefs  of  the  country  round  till  Crom- 
well, the  villain,  came, 
And  battered  the  walls  of  the  castle  and  set  all  the  houses 

aflame ; 
He  came  an'  he  stabled  his  horses  in  the  abbey  of  St.  Col- 

umkille, 
An'  the  mark  of  his  murderin'  cannon  you  may  see  on  the 

old  wall  still. 
An'  he  planted  a  common  trooper  where  the  Ryans  were 

chieftains  of  yore, 
An'  that  was  the  first  o'  the  breed  of  him  that 's  now  Lord 

Cahirmore. 


THE   STREET  BALLADS.  171 

Old  Father  John,  —  he  was  ninety-one,  —  it  was  he  that 

could  tell  you  the  story, 
An'  every  name  of  his  kith  and  kin,  —  may  their  souls  now 

rest  in  glory  ! 

His  father  was  shot  in  '98  as  he  stood  in  the  chapel  door ; 
His  grandfather  was  the  strongest  man  in  the  parish  of 

Cahirmore ; 
An'  thin  there  was  Donough,  Donal  More,  and  Turlough  on 

the  roll, 
An'  Kian,  boy,  that  lost  the  lands  because  he  'd  save  his 

soul. 

Ochone,  machree,  but  the  night  is  cold,  and  the  hunger  in 

your  face. 

Hard  times  are  comin',  avic !    God  help  us  with  his  grace  ! 
Three  years  before  the  famine  came  the  agent   raised  the 

rent, 
But  then  there  was  many  a  helpin'  hand,  and  we  struggled 

on  content. 
Ochone,  ochone  !  we  're  lonely  now,  —  now  that  our  need  is 

sore, 
For  there  's  none  but  good  Father  Mahony  that  ever  comes 

inside  our  door. 
God  bless  him  for  the  food  he  brings  an'  the  blankets  that 

keep  us  warm ! 
God  bless  him  for  his  holy  words  that  shelter  us  from  harm  ! 

This  is  the  month  an'  the  day,  Paddy,  that  my  own  colleen 

went, 
She  died  on  the  roadside,  Paddy,  when  we  were  drove  out 

for  the  rent ; 
An'  it 's  well  that  I  remember  how  she  turned  to  me  an' 

cried, 
"  There 's  never  a  pain  that  may  n't  be  a  gain,"  and  crossed 

herself  and  died. 


172       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

For  the  Soupers  were  there  with  shelter  and  food  if  we  'd 

only  tell  the  lie, 
But  they  fled  like  the  wicked  things  they  were  when  they 

saw  poor  Kathleen  die. 
She 's  prayin'  for  all  of  us  now,  Paddy,  —  her  blessing  I 

know  she  's  givin' ! 
An'  they  that  have  little  here  below  have  much,  asthore,  in 

heaven ! 


BELLEWSTOWN   RACES. 

This  street  ballad  has  much  more  finish  and  humor  than  most,  but  is 
a  genuine  one. 

IF  a  respite  ye  'd  borrow  from  turmoil  or  sorrow, 

I  '11  tell  you  the  secret  of  liow  it  is  done ; 
'T  is  found  in  this  version  of  all  the  diversion 

That  Bellewstown  knows  when  the  races  comes  on. 
Make  one  of  a  party  whose  spirits  are  hearty, 

Get  a  seat  on  a  trap  that  is  safe  not  to  spill, 
In  its  well  pack  a  hamper,  then  off  for  a  scamper, 

And  hurroo  for  the  glories  of  Bellewstown  Hill ! 

On  the  road  how  they  dash  on,  rank,  beauty,  and  fashion ! 

It  Banagher  bangs  by  the  table  o'  war ; 
From  the  coach  of  the  quality,  down  to  the  jollity 

Jogging  along  on  an  ould  low-backed  car. 
Though  straw  cushions  are  placed,  two  feet  thick  at  laste, 

It 's  concussive  jollity  to  mollify  still ; 
0,  the  cheeks  of  my  Nelly  are  shaking  like  jelly 

From  the  jolting  she  gets  as  she  jogs  to  the  Hill. 

Arrived  at  its  summit  the  view  that  you  come  at, 
From  etherealized  Mourne  to  where  Tara  ascends, 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  173 

There  's  no  scene  in  our  sireland,  dear  Ireland,  old  Ireland  ! 

To  which  nature  more  exquisite  loveliness  lends. 
And  the  soil  'neath  your  feet  has  a  memory  sweet, 

The  patriots'  deeds  they  hallow  it  still ; 
Eighty-two's  volunteers  (would  to-day  saw  their  peers  !) 

Marched  past  in  review  upon  Bellewstown  Hill. 

But  hark !  there  's  a  shout,  —  the  horses  are  out,  — 

'Long  the  ropes,  on  the  stand,  what  a  hullaballoo ! 
To  old  Crock-a-Fotha,  the  people  that  dot  the 

Broad  plateau  around  are  all  for  a  view. 
"  Come,  Ned,  my  tight  fellow,  I  '11  bet  on  the  yellow  !  " 

"  Success  to  the  green  !   faith,  we  '11  stand  by  it  still !  " 
The  uplands  and  hollows  they  're  skimming  like  swallows, 

Till  they  flash  by  the  post  upon  Bellewstown  Hill. 

In  the  tents  play  the  pipers,  the  fiddlers  and  fifers, 

Those  rollicking  lilts  such  as  Ireland  best  knows ; 
While  Paddy  is  prancing,  his  colleen  is  dancing, 

Demure,  with  her  eyes  quite  intent  on  his  toes. 
More  power  to  you,  Micky  !  faith,  your  foot  is  n't  sticky, 

But  bounds  from  the  boards  like  a  pay  from  the  quill. 
0,  't  would  cure  a  rheumatic,  —  he'd  jump  up  ecstatic 

At  "Tatter  Jack  Walsh  "  upon  Bellewstown  Hill. 

0,  't  is  there  neath  the  haycocks,  all  splendid  like  paycocks, 

In  chattering  groups  that  the  quality  dine ; 
Sitting  cross-legged  like  tailors  the  gentlemen  dealers 

In  flattery  spout  and  come  out  mighty  fine. 
And  the  gentry  around  from  Navan  and  Cavan  are  "  having," 

'Neath  the  shade  of  the  trees,  an  exquisite  quadrille. 
All  we  read  in  the  pages  of  pastoral  ages 

Tell  of  no  scene  like  this  upon  Bellewstown  Hill. 


174      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   LARRY  WAS   STRETCHED. 

The  authorship  of  "The  Night  before  Larry  was  Stretched  "  has 
been  ascribed  by  Rev.  Francis  Mahony  (Father  Prout),  who  translated 
it  into  French  under  the  title  of  "La  Morte  de  Socrate,"  to  Rev.  Rob- 
ert Burrowes,  Anglican  Dean  of  Saint  Finbar's  Cathedral,  Cork.  Ma- 
hony was  a  native  of  Cork,  and  ought  to  have  known  if  the  story  was 
true  ;  but,  like  'Dr.  Maginn  and  other  writers  in  the  Blackwood  and 
Fraser's  Magazines  of  that  day,  he  thought  it  a  good  joke  to  father 
some  utterly  incongruous  article  upon  a  notable  person.  It  has  also 
been  ascribed  to  no  less  a  person  than  John  Philpot  Curran,  and  he 
had  both  the  wit  and  the  knowledge  of  low  life  to  have  written  it. 
But  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  acknowledged  it,  as  it 
is  quite  as  moral  and  edifying  as  the  song  of  "  The  Monks  of  the 
Screw,"  which  he  did  acknowledge.  It  has  also  been  credited  to  Ned. 
Lysaght,  a  hanger  on  of  the  viceregal  court  in  the  times  of  the  Union, 
and  the  author  of  "The  Sprig  of  Shillelah";  but,  if  his  published 
verse  is  to  be  taken  as  evidence,  he  had  neither  the  strength  nor  the 
understanding  of  low  life  required  for  its  production.  The  internal 
evidence  would  go  to  show  that  it  is  the  production  of  one  of  the  class 
which  it  commemorates  ;  and,  if  it  has  a  more  compact  form  and  more 
accuracy  in  metre  and  rhyme  than  they  usually  have,  it  is  merely  an 
extraordinary  specimen.  It  was  claimed  during  his  life  by  one  William 
Maher,  of  Waterford,  —  a  shrewd  vagabond  with  a  distorted  ankle,  and 
therefore  called  "Hurlfoot  Bill."  He  was  the  author  of  other  such 
verses,  and  his  claim  was  not  disputed  during  his  lifetime.  It  is  upon 
him  that  the  authorship  is  most  probably  fixed. 

The  slang  terms  are  easily  understood  from  their  metaphoric  mean- 
ing, and  require  no  glossary.  In  former  times  it  was  customary  to 
allow  the  friends  of  the  condemned  to  spend  the  last  night  with  him 
in  his  cell,  and  they  frequently  did  in  the  fashion  depicted  in  the  bal- 
lad. The  coffin  was  placed  in  the  cell,  in  this  instance  utilized  as  a 
card  table,  and  the  victim  joined  in  his  own  wake.  The  hero  of  the 
ballad  has  been  described  as  one  Lambert,  an  outcast  of  a  respectable 
family  in  Dublin,  who  spent  the  last  night  of  his  life  in  this  manner, 
but,  to  the  disgust  of  his  associates,  played  the  coward  at  the  gallows. 

THE  night  before  Larry  was  stretched, 
The  boys  they  all  paid  him  a  visit ; 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  175 

A  bit  in  their  sacks  too  they  fetched, 
They  sweated  their  duds  till  they  riz  it ; 

For  Larry  was  always  the  lad, 

When  a  friend  was  condemned  to  the  squeezer, 

But  he  'd  fence  all  the  togs  that  he  had 
Just  to  help  the  poor  boy  to  a  sneezer, 
And  moisten  his  gob  'fore  he  died. 

"  Ton  my  conscience,  dear  Larry,"  says  I, 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  see  you  in  trouble, 
Your  life's  cheerful  noggin  run  dry, 

And  yourself  going  off  like  its  bubble." 
"  Hould  your  tongue  in  that  matter,"  says  he ; 

"  For  the  neckcloth  I  don't  care  a  button, 
And  by  this  time  to-morrow  you  '11  see 

Your  Larry  will  be  dead  as  mutton  : 

All  for  what  1  'Kase  his  courage  was  good." 

The  boys  they  came  crowding  in  fast ; 

They  drew  their  stools  close  round  about  him. 
Six  glims  round  his  coffin  they  placed ; 

He  could  n't  be  well  waked  without  'em. 
I  axed  if  he  was  fit  for  to  die, 

Without  having  duly  repented? 
Says  Larry,  "  That 's  all  in  my  eye, 

And  all  by  the  clergy  invented 

To  make  a  fat  bit  for  themselves." 

Then  the  cards  being  called  for,  they  played, 

Till  Larry  found  one  of  them  cheated. 
Quick  !  he  made  a  hard  rap  at  his  head,  — 

The  lad  being  easily  heated. 
"  So  ye  chates  me  because  I  'm  in  grief; 

0,  is  that,  by  the  Holy,  the  rason  ? 


176      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Soon  I  '11  give  you  to  know,  you  d d  thief, 

That  you  're  cracking  your  jokes  out  of  sason, 
And  scuttle  your  nob  with  my  fist." 

Then  in  came  the  priest  with  his  book, 

He  spoke  him  so  smooth  and  so  civil, 
Larry  tipped  him  a  Kilmainham  look, 

And  pitched  his  big  wig  to  the  divil. 
Then  raising  a  little  his  head 

To  get  a  sweet  drop  of  the  bottle, 
And  pitiful  sighing,  he  said, 

"  0,  the  hemp  will  be  soon  round  my  throttle, 
And  choke  my  poor  windpipe  to  death  ! " 

So  mournful  these  last  words  he  spoke, 

We  all  vented  our  tears  in  a  shower ; 
For  my  part  I  thought  my  heart  broke 

To  see  him  cut  down  like  a  flower. 
On  his  travels  we  watched  him  next  day ; 

0,  the  hangman,  I  thought  I  could  kill  him ! 
Not  one  word  did  our  poor  Larry  say, 

Nor  changed  till  he  came  to  "  King  William." 
Och,  my  dear,  thin  his  color  turned  white. 

When  he  came  to  the  nubbling  chit, 

He  was  tucked  up  so  neat  and  so  pretty ; 
The  rumbler  jogged  off  with  his  feet, 

And  he  died  with  his  face  to  the  city. 
He  kicked,  too,  but  that  was  all  pride, 

For  soon  you  might  see  .'t  was  all  over ; 
And  as  soon  as  the  noose  was  untied, 

Then  at  darky  we  waked  him  in  clover, 
And  sent  him  to  take  a  ground  sweat. 


THE   STREET  BALLADS.  177 


LUKE   CAFFREY'S   KILMAINHAM  MINIT. 

Luke  CafFrey's  Kilmainham  Minit,  or  Minuet,  his  last  dance  on  the 
gallows,  is  not  less  horribly  graphic,  but  is  more  recondite  and  obscure 
in  its  language,  and  requires  some  interpretation. 

WHEN  to  see  Luke's  last  jig  we  agreed, 

We  tipped  him  our  gripes  in  a  tangle, 
Den  mounted  our  trotters  wid  speed 

To  squint  at  de  snub  as  he  'd  dangle. 
For  Luke  was  ever  de  chap 

To  boozle  de  bulldogs  and  pinners, 
And  when  dat  he  milled  a  fat  slap 

He  merrily 'melted  de  winners, 
To  snack  with  the  boys  of  the  pad. 

The  rneaning  of  the  "  last  jig  "  is  obvious  ;  "  We  tipped  him  our  gripes 
in  a  tangle  "  is  Homeric  for  a  hearty  and  feeling  shake  of  the  hand. 
"  Den  mounted  our  trotters  with  speed  "  is  equivalent  to  riding  shanks' 
mare.  To  "  boozle  "  is  an  evident  corruption  of  puzzle,  and  the  "bull- 
dogs" and  "pinners"  are  the  officers  of  the  law,  as  Mr.  W.  Steuart 
Trench,  in  his  "Realities  of  Irish  Life,"  says  his  process-servers  were 
called  "grippers."  "  Milled  a  fat  slap  "  means  captured  a  good  booty, 
the  "winners"  being  a  corruption  of  winnings. 

Along  the  sweet  Combe  den  we  go, 

Slap  dash  through  the  Poddle  we  lark  it, 
And  when  dat  we  came  to  de  Row, 

0,  dere  was  no  meat  in  de  market. 
De  boys  dey  had  travelled  before, 

Like  rattlers  we  after  him  pegged  it ; 
To  miss  him  would  grieve  us  full  sore 

Because  as  a  favor  he  begged  it, 
We  'd  tip  him  de  fives  fore  his  det. 
12 


178      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

They  come  up  with  him  "before  his  cart  reaches  the  gallows,  and  he 
speaks  as  follows  :  — 

"  Your  sowl  I  'd  fight  blood  to  de  eyes, 

You  know  it  I  would  to  content  ye, 
But  foul  play  I  always  despise 

Dat  's  for  one  to  fall  before  twenty." 
Says  he,  "  'T  is  my  fate  for  to  die, 

I  knowed  it  when  I  was  committed ; 
But  if  dat  de  slang  you  run  sly, 

De  scrag  boy  may  yet  be  outwitted, 
And  I  scout  again  on  de  lay. 

"De  slang  to  run  sly"  is  to  talk  so  as  not  to  he  understood  hy  the 
officers  of  the  law.  "De  scrag  boy  "  is  the  hangman  ;  and  to  "scout 
on  the  lay  "  is  to  go  robbing. 

"  When  I  dance  'tween  de  ert  and  de  skies, 

De  clargy  may  plead  for  the  struggler, 
But  when  on  de  ground  your  friend  lies,        % 

0,  tip  him  a  snig  in  de  juggler. 
You  know  dat  is  all  my  last  hope, 

As  the  surgents  of  ottamy  tell  us, 
Dat  when  I  'in  cut  down  from  de  rope 

You  'd  bring  back  de  puff  to  my  bellows 
And  set  me  once  more  on  my  pins." 

To  "  tip  him  a  snig  in  de  juggler  "  was  to  bleed  the  jugular  vein,  and 
the  "  surgents  of  ottamy  "  signifies  the  surgeons  of  anatomy.  It  was 
a  current  hope  among  criminals  that  they  could  be  revived  by  bleeding 
after  they  had  been  hung,  such  a  case  having  occurred  to  one  Lanagan, 
who  was  hung  for  the  murder  of  his  master  in  Dublin,  as  related  in  the 
memoirs  of  Sir  Jonah  Barrington.  He  was  taken  to  the  dissecting- 
table,  and  the  circulation  of  the  blood  was  restored  by  the  incisions  of 
the  surgeon's  knife. 

Dese  last  words  he  spoke  with  a  sigh, 
We  saw  de  poor  fellow  was  funkin ; 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  179 

De  drizzle  stole  down  from  his  eye, 

Dat  we  thought  had  got  better  spunk  in. 

Wid  a  tip  of  de  slang  we  replied 
And  a  blinker  dat  nobody  noted ; 

De  clargy  stepped  down  from  his  side, 
And  de  dust  cart  from  under  him  floated, 
And  left  him  to  dance  on  de  air. 

The  "  dust  cart "  was  the  platform  car  on  which  he  had  been  taken  to 
the  gallows,  and  which  was  drawn  from  under  him.  The  "dust  cart" 
has  a  touch  of  graphic  horror. 

Pads  foremost  he  dived  and  den  round 

He  capered  de  Kilmainham  minit, 
And  when  dat  he  lay  on  the  ground, 

Our  business  we  thought  to  begin  it. 
Wid  de  stiff  to  de  sheebeen  we  hied, 

But  det  had  shut  fast  every  grinder, 
His  brain-box  hung  all  a  one  side, 

And  no  distiller's  pig  could  be  blinder. 
But  dat 's  what  we  all  must  come  to. 

The  first  two  lines,  as  describing  the  gyrations  of  the  criminal  at  the 
end  of  the  rope,  are  horribly  graphic,  as  indeed  is  the  whole  verse. 


TRUST   TO   LUCK. 

This  has  for  years  been  a  favorite  with  the  street  singers  and  the  peo- 
ple, and  its  refrain  has  been  sung  by  more  than  one  notable  criminal 
before  his  execution,  as  a  sort  of  Nunc  dimittis. 

TRUST  to  luck,  trust  to  luck,  stare  fate  in  the  face, 
Sure  the  heart  must  be  aisy  when  it 's  in  the  right  place ; 
Let  the  world  wag  away,  let  your  friends  turn  to  foes, 
Let  your  pockets  run  dry  and  threadbare  be  your  clothes ; 


180      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Should  woman  deceive,  when  you  trust  to  her  heart, 
Never  sigh,  —  't  wont  relieve  it,  but  add  to  the  smart. 
Trust  to  luck,  trust  to  luck,  stare  fate  in  the  face, 
Sure  the  heart  must  be  aisy  when  it 's  in  the  right  place. 

Be  a  man,  be  a  man,  wheresoever  you  go, 
Through  the  sunshine  of  wealth  or  the  teardrop  of  woe. 
Should  the  wealthy  look  grand  and  the  proud  pass  you  by 
With  the  back  of  their  hand  and  the  scorn  of  their  eye, 
Snap  your  fingers  and  smile  as  you  pass  on  your  way, 
And  remember,  the  while,  every  dog  has  his  day. 

Trust  to  luck,  trust  to  luck,  stare  fate  in  the  face, 
Sure  the  heart  must  be  aisy,  when  it 's  in  the  right  place. 

In  love  as  in  war  sure  it 's  Irish  delight, 

He  's  good-humored  with  both,  the  sweet  girl  and  a  fight ; 

He  coaxes,  he  bothers,  he  blarneys  the  dear, 

To  resist  him  she  can't,  and  he 's  off  when  she  's  near, 

And  when  valor  calls  him,  from  his  darling  he  'd  fly, 

And  for  liberty  fight  and  for  ould  Ireland  die. 

Trust  to  luck,  trust  to  luck,  stare  fate  in  the  face, 
The  heart  must  be  aisy  if  it 's  in  the  right  place. 


JOHNNY,   I    HARDLY   KNEW   YE. 

The  following  is  a  modern  street  ballad,  as  will  be  seen  from  the  use 
of  the  word  "  skedaddle,"  which  was  one  of  the  inventions  of  the  Ameri- 
can war,  and  has  a  strong  and  graphic  humor  in  spite,  or  perhaps  for  the 
reason,  of  its  uncouth  rudeness. 

WHILE  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 


THE  STREET  BALLADS.  181 

While  going  the  road  to  sweet  Athy, 

A  stick  iii  my  hand  and  a  drop  in  my  eye, 

A  doleful  damsel  I  heard  cry, 

Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye. 

CHORUS. 
With  your  drums  and  guns  and  guns  and  drums, 

The  enemy  nearly  slew  ye, 
0  darling  dear,  you  look  so  queer, 
Faith,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 

Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild  1 

Hurroo !  hurroo  ! 
Where  are  your  eyes  that  looked  so  mild  1 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 

Where  are  the  eyes  that  looked  so  mild, 
When  my  heart  you  did  beguile  1 
Why  did  you  skedaddle  from  me  and  the  child  1 

Why,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 
With  your  guns,  etc. 

Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run  1 

Hurroo !  hurroo  ! 
Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run  ? 

Hurroo  !  hurroo ! 

Where  are  the  legs  with  which  you  run, 
When  you  went  to  carry  a  gun,  — 
Indeed,  your  dancing  days  are  done  ! 

Faith,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye ! 
With  your  guns,  etc. 

It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 


182       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

It  grieved  my  heart  to  see  you  sail, 
Though  from  my  heart  you  ran  away,  — 
Like  a  cod  you  're  doubled  up  head  and  tail. 
Faith,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye  ! 
With  your  guns,  etc. 

I  'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
I  'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 

Hurroo !  hurroo ! 
I  'm  happy  for  to  see  you  home, 
All  from  the  island  of  Sulloon,  (?) 
So  low  in  flesh,  so  high  in  bone, 

Faith,  Johnny,  I  hardly  knew  ye ! 
With  your  guns,  etc. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS. 

IN  the*  hard-drinking  days  of  the  last  century  it  was 
acknowledged  that  the  Irish  were  superior  in  the  depth 
of  their  potations  to  even  the  capacious  English,  and  carried 
off  their  liquor  more  handsomely  than  even  the  hard-headed 
Scotch.  The  stories  that  are  told,  not  only  of  the  occasional 
bouts  at  drinking,  but  of  the  regular  habits  of  good  society, 
are  almost  incredible.  The  fathers  instructed  their  boys  to 
"  make  their  head  "  when  young,  that  is,  acquire  the  power 
of  drinking  great  quantities  of  liquor  without  getting  drunk, 
and  not  even  the  clergy  of  the  Established  Church,  or  the 
judges,  avoided  or  discouraged  the  bowl.  Drinking  was  a 
fashionably  accomplishment  among  the  upper  classes,  and 
they  devoted  themselves  to  it  as  to  a  proper  pastime  and 
enlightened  occupation.  A  gallon  of  claret  was  considered 
not  more  than  a  fair  allowance  per  man,  and  there  were  va- 
rious devices  to  hasten  the  circulation  of  the  glass  and  pre- 
vent shirking  or  desertion.  No  "heeltaps,"  no  "skylights," 
were  allowed,  —  that  is  to  say,  any  remainder  in  the  glass,  or 
space  between  the  liquor  and  the  rim.  The  bottoms  of  the 
decanters  were  frequently  rounded  so  that  they  could  not  be 
set  upright,  and  therefore  had  to  be  kept  in  constant  circula- 
tion. Another  custom  was  to  break  off  the  stems  of  the  glasses 
so  that  they  must  be  emptied  as  soon  as  filled.  It  was 
sometimes  customary  to  take  away  the  shoes  of  the  guests, 
and  strew  broken  glass  along  the  entry  to  prevent  anybody's 


184      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

escape.  A  huge  glass  called  a  "  constable  "  was  inflicted  as 
a  fine  for  any  recalcitrance  or  fraud  in  drinking;  and  when 
any  one  left  the  table  bits  of  paper  were  dropped  in  his  glass 
to  count  the  rounds  of  the  bottle  in  his  absence,  which  he 
was  obliged  to  make  up  on  his  return  or  be  fined  so  many 
bumpers  of  salt  and  water.  There  were  astounding  indi- 
vidual feats  of  drinking,  and  Jack  Gallaspy,*  a  noted  buck 
of  those  days,  was  celebrated  for  drinking  a  "full  hand," 
that  is  from  five  glasses  held  between  his  fingers  so  that 
each  one  emptied  into  the  first  glass  in  turn.  The  custom  of 
celebrating  marriages  before  noon  was  to  avoid  the  probable 
obfuscation  of  the  bridegroom  and  possible  fraud  upon  him, 
and  there  were  other  arrangements  adapted  to  a  society  in 
which  everybody  was  expected  to  be  drunk  after  dinner. 

Some  of  the  anecdotes  of  extraordinary  bouts  of  drinking 
are  recorded  in  Sir  Jonah  Barrington's  "  Sketches  of  his 
own  Time,"  which,  although  accused  of  some  exaggeration, 
and  not  always  true  in  particular  details,  give  an  extraor- 
dinarily vivid  description  of  society  as  it  existed  at  that  time. 
In  one,  which  took  place  on  his  father's  estate  in  his  youth, 
and  which  he  attended  for  the  first  day,  nine  gentlemen  shut 
themselves  up  in  the  huntsman's  lodge  on  St.  Stephen's  day 
with  a  hogshead  of  claret  and  the  carcass  of  a  fat  cow  hung 
up  by  the  heels.  An  anteroom  was  spread  with  straw  for  a 
bed  and  the  windows  closed  against  the  light  of  day.  Two 
pipers  and  a  fiddler  furnished  the  music,  and  a  couple  of 
hounds  were  taken  in  to  add  to  the  vigor  of  the  hunting 
choruses.  The  sports  consisted  of  cock-fighting  and  card- 
playing,  but  the  main  business  was  to  carouse.  There  they 
remained  for  a  week,  until  the  hogshead  of  claret  was  upon 
the  stoop  and  the  last  steak  cut  from  the  cow,  and  in  a  gal- 
lon of  mulled  claret  they  drank  to  their  next  merry  meeting. 
On  another  occasion  a  clergyman  on  a  visit  to  a  country 

*  "Streets  of  Dublin,"  in  Irish  Quarterly  Review. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         185 

house  escaped  from  a  convivial  party  and  fled  into  the  park, 
where  he  was  pursued  by  the  revellers  with  cries  of  "  stole 
away."  He  passed  the  night  on  the  ground  with  the  deer, 
and  in  the  morning  on  returning  to  the  house  he  witnessed 
an  extraordinary  procession.  Such  of  the  party  as  were  in 
possession  of  their  legs  had  procured  a  low-backed  car,  and, 
piling  the  bodies  of  their  insensible  friends  within  it,  cover- 
ing them  with  a  sheet  and  illuminating  them  with  candles 
after  the  fashion  of  a  wake,  they  drew  them  to  their  respect- 
ive homes,  singing  a  keen,  or  lamentation,  by  the  way.  These 
orgies  have  long  passed  out  of  date  in  Ireland,  as  they  have 
in  the  rest  of  Great  Britain,  and  were  only  a  little  more  ex- 
travagant than  those  in  England  and  Scotland  at  the  same 
time. 

The  chief  persons  in  the  kingdom  at  one  time  formed  them- 
selves into  a  society  called  the  "  Monks  of  the  Screw,"  whose 
title  was  significant  of  its  purpose,  and  whose  ranks  included 
the  Marquis  of  Townsend  (Viceroy  of  Ireland),  the  Earl  of 
Charlemont  (the  leader  in  the  Volunteer  movement),  Hussey 
Burgh  (Chief  Baron),  Lord  Avonmore  and  Lord  Kil warden 
(judges),  Henry  Grattan,  John  Philpot  Curran,  Rev.  Arthur 
O'Leary,  and  others  of  the  most  distinguished  persons  in 
Ireland.  They  were  accustomed  to  meet  at  a  tavern  in  St. 
Kevin  Street,  Dublin,  which  they  called  the  Convent,  and  to 
indulge  in  a  grand  festival  and  "  high  jinks,"  at  which  there 
was  probably  more  wit,  as  well  as  conviviality,  than  at  any 
meetings  held  in  Great  Britain  since  those  of  Shakespeare, 
Jonson,  and  their  associates,  at  the  Mermaid.  That  period 
was  the  golden  age  of  Irish  society,  when  it  had  recovered 
from  the  ages  of  turmoil  and  bitterness,  and  had  peace  and 
leisure  to  gather  and  flourish,  and  before  the  absorption  of 
the  Irish  Parliament  into  the  English  extinguished  its  mosfr 
powerful  nucleus,  and  drew  more  and  more  of  its  highest 
elements  to  London.  It  was  the  period  when  eloquence  as 


186      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

eloquence  reached  its  highest  point  of  cultivation  in  Great 
Britain,  and  which  was  almost  equally  distinguished  by  a 
brilliancy  of  wit  and  humor.  Not  even  French  society  can 
show  a  richer  collection  of  jests  and  bon  mots  at  any  period 
than  were  uttered  by  the  leaders  of  the  Irish  bar  in  the 
period  of  the  Union.  It  can  be  easily  imagined  what  the 
convivial  meetings  of  such  a  party  would  be. 

An  accompaniment  of  drinking  was  very  naturally  singing, 
and  convivial  songs  celebrating  whiskey  and  wine,  the  de- 
lights of  good-fellowship,  and  the  prowess  of  drinkers,  were 
composed  in  great  abundance.  There  is  perhaps  no  bac- 
chanalian poet  among  the  Irish  who  equalled  in  number  and 
variety  the  happy  verses  of  Captain  Morris  in  praise  of  the 
bowl,  or  rivalled  the  quality  of  one  or  two  of  Burns's  lyrics ; 
but  there  were  individual  songs  quite  entitled  to  rank  in  sin- 
cere joviality  and  spirit  with  Bishop  Kitson's  "Back  and 
Syde,  Goe  Bare,  Goe  Bare,"  and  Walter  De  Mapes's  "  The  Jolly 
Priest's  Confession,"  so  effectively  rendered  from  the  Latin 
by  Leigh  Hunt,  or  any  of  the  celebrated  drinking  anthems 
and  shoeing-horns  of  poetry  which  have  descended  to  us 
from  all  time.  "  Bumpers,  Squire  Jones,"  by  Baron  Dawson 
of  the  Exchequer,  is  unique  in  its  spirit  and  melody.  The 
fashion  went  out  of  date  with  Moore,  as  the  habit  had  done 
before,  and  in  his  bacchanalian  verses  there  was  an  element 
of  insincerity,  of  classical  compliment  and  elaborate  fancy, 
quite  different  from  the  real  delight  in  drinking  and  vivid 
experience  displayed  in  the  earlier  songs.  After  his  time 
there  was  no  more  singing  of  the  delights  of  getting  drunk 
than  of  gluttony,  and  perhaps  the  old  songs  may  not  be 
pleasant  to  a  more  refined  and  temperate  taste ;  but  in  a 
view  of  the  poetry  of  Ireland  some  specimens  of  them  cannot 
well  be  omitted. 

As  to  the  Irish  poetry  of  a  comic  or  humorous  cast,  the 
statement  will  be  considered  a  little  strange  that  the  great 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         187 

bulk  of  what  passes  for  such  was  not  written  by  Irishmen. 
The  songs  full  of  bulls  and  blunders,  and  drawing  their 
humor  from  brogue  and  horse-play,  are  almost  without  ex- 
ception the  production  of  English  writers,  who  as  a  general 
thing  give  little  more  than  a  coarse  caricature,  without 
truth  or  faithfulness.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  dramatists 
of  the  time  of  Garrick  and  Foote  to  introduce  Irish  charac- 
ters into  their  farces  to  raise  a  laugh  by  broad  brogue  and 
blunders ;  and  songs  were  written  by  George  Colman  the 
Younger,  and  others,  in  the  same  vein,  which  were  not  only 
vulgar  and  stupid,  but  had  not  the  slightest  real  flavor  of 
Irish  life.  For  many  years  they  were  the  stock  "  Irish " 
songs,  and  their  successors  to-day  in  the  London  music-halls 
and  in  the  variety  theatres  of  the  United  States  are  the  com- 
position of  the  poets  of  the  negro  minstrels,  and  where  they 
have  any  strength  or  flavor  at  all  it  is  as  caricatures  of  Anglo- 
Irish,  or  Irish-American,  rather  than  Irish  life.  An  exception 
is  to  be  made  in  javor  of  the  Irish  ballads^of  Thackeray,  who 
thoroughly  understood  and  appreciated  Irish  character,  and 
reproduced  it  in  kindly  and  faithful  caricature  ;  but  even  in 
these  Mr.  Anthony  Trollope  complains  that  the  brogue  is  at 
fault  in  some  minor  particulars.  The  general  impression  is 
that  there  is  a  great  quantity  of  Irish  comic  poetry ;  but  the 
larger  portion  of  it  will  be  found  on  examination  tojiave  been 
written  by  English  writers,  and  to  be  as  uncharacteristic  as 
it  is  worthless.  The  really  Irish  poetry  of  a  humorous  cast 
is  quite  limited  in  amount  in  comparison  with  the  English 
and  Scotch. 

It  is  not  for  the  want  of  humor  in  the  race,  for  that,  we 
know,  is  superabundant ;  and  if  we  cast  about  for  a  reason, 
it  may  possibly  be  found  in  the  fact,  that  the  Irish,  like  the 
Americans,  for  several  generations,  were  quite  sensitive  to  ridi- 
cule, and  did  not  feel  that  assurance  in  their  position  among 
nations  to  like  to  present  their  ridiculous  aspects  even  to 


188   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

themselves.  It  is  a  significant  confirmation  of  this  theory, 
that  O'Connell  once  attacked  Lever,  in  a  public  speech,  for 
bringing  ridicule  upon  his  native  country  by  sketches  of 
comic  and  undignified  figures  and  scenes,  and  that  the 
Young  Ireland  party  blamed  Lover's  comic  songs  for  the 
same  reason.  However  this  may  be,  humorous  poetry  is 
not  abundant  in  genuine  Irish  literature,  and  is  misrepre- 
sented to  the  ordinary  conception  by  the  coarse  and  poor 
imitations  of  persons  who  never  saw  the  country.  Moore 
wrote  some  very  keen  and  witty  political  satires,  perhaps 
the  most  so  of  any  modern  poet ;  but  they  related  entirely 
to  English  politics,  and  had  no  Irish  flavor  of  dialect  or 
form.  There  are  hardly  more  than  four  native  writers  of 
humorous  verse  of  any  prominence,  or  who  wrote  any 
amount,  —  Richard  Milliken,  Dr.  William  Maginn,  Charles 
Lever,  and  Samuel  Lover,  —  and  there  is  not  a  single  long 
humorous  poem  or  satire  in  Irish  literature  in  the  English 
language. 

Richard  Alfred  Milliken,  the  author  of  "  The  Groves  of 
Blarney,"  which  by  its  curious  felicity  of  humor  and  imita- 
tion of  the  unconscious  exaggeration  of  ignorance  has  taken 
the  world's  ear,  was  born  in  Cork  in  1767,  and  died  in 
1815.  He  was  a  barrister  by  profession,  but  an  amateur 
artist  and  literateur  by  inclination,  witty,  convivial,  and  im- 
provident, and  known  among  his  associates  as  "  honest  Dick 
Milliken."  The  circumstances  of  the  composition  of  "  The 
Groves  of  Blarney  "  were,  that  he  was  visiting  the  house  of  a 
wealthy  lady  in  the  country,  when  one  of  the  wandering 
ballad-singers  made  his  appearance  at  the  lodge,  and  sent  in 
a  petition  to  be  allowed  to  sing  her  praises.  He  was  ad- 
mitted into  the  parlor,  where  he  recited  his  verses,  which 
were  of  the  highest  incongruity  and  most  platitudinous 
eloquence.  Some  one  of  the  guests  bantered,  Milliken  to 
produce  their  equal,  and  the  result  was  "The  Groves  of 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS   SONOS.          189 

Blarney,"  which  is  not  only  in  exact  imitation  of  the  style 
of  the  begging  poets,  but  a  close  parody  upon  the  original, 
which  was  entitled  "Sweet  Castle 'Hyde,"  and  is  still  sold 
as  a  street  ballad.  The  following  is  a  verse  from  the 
original :  — 

"  There  are  fine  walks  in  those  pleasant  gardens, 
And  spots  most  charming  in  shady  bowers; 
The  gladiator,  who  is  hold  and  daring, 

Both  night  and  morning  to  watch  the  flowers." 

Besides  representing  with  happy  felicity  this  phase  of  Irish 
humor,  Milliken  did  little  else  of  importance  in  literature. 
He  wrote  a  poem  in  blank  verse,  called  "  The  Riverside," 
and  a  tale  called  "  The  Slave  of  Surinam,"  both  in  the  vein 
of  polite  literature,  and  without  flavor  or  strength;  but 
there  are  one  or  two  other  occasional  poems  of  his  which 
have  something  of  a  grace  and  humor  not  unworthy  of  the 
author  of  "  The  Groves  of  Blarney." 

Dr.  William  Maginn  is  a  much  more  important  and  bet- 
ter known  author,  and  was  in  some  respects  among  the  most 
remarkable  literary  men  that  Ireland  has  produced,  although 
he  frittered  away  his  genius  in  magazine  writing,  and  left  no 
permanent  work  behind  him.  He  was,  however,  one  of  the 
leading  magazine  writers  and  journalists  in  the  days  when 
Wilson,  Lockhart,  De  Quincey,  Lamb,  and  others  gave  the 
most  of  their  writing  to  magazines ;  and  his  fragments,  in 
spite  of  their  contemporaneous  object,  retain  their  interest 
by  the  sheer  force  and  vividness  of  the  style.  He  was  born 
in  Cork  in  1793,  and  died  at  Walton-on-Thames  in  1842, 
aged  forty-nine  years.  His  early  manhood  he  spent  in  con- 
ducting a  classical  school  in  Cork,  having  been  remarkable 
for  the  facility  with  which  he  acquired  languages,  and  having 
received  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  from  Trinity  College  when  but 
twenty-three  years  of  age.  The  success  of  some  early  con- 


190   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

tributions  to  Blackwood's  Magazine,  translations  of  English 
verse  into  Latin  and  Greek,  which  was  a  favorite  exercise  for 
scholars  at  that  time,  induced  him  to  abandon  his  school 
and  take  himself  to  London,  where  he  thenceforth  lived  by 
literature  and  journalism.  He  was  a  most  accomplished, 
forcible,  and  rapid  journalist,  being  connected  with  several 
of  the  leading  Tory  newspapers  in  positions  which  did  not 
require  trust  in  his  habits.  He  was  the  original  of  the 
"  Captain  Shandon  "  of  Pendennis  ;  and  although  Thackeray 
represents  him  as  he  was  in  his  later  days  and  with  the 
worse  side  of  his  habits,  intimating  also  a  political  venality 
of  which  he  was  never  guilty,  it  is  evident  also  that  he 
regarded  him  as  a  very  accomplished  and  important  figure 
in  the  world  of  letters.  His  contributions  to  literature  were 
stinging  political  satires  in  prose  and  verse,  written  with  a 
force,  vigor,  and  abandon  unrivalled  by  any  of  his  contem- 
poraries, and,  although  sometimes  coarse  and  virulent,  less 
(rather  than  more)  so  than  those  of  his  contemporaries, 
Theodore  Hook,  Lockhart,  and  others.  His  "  Panegyric  on 
Colonel  Pride,"  a  philippic  of  a  couple  of  pages  or  so,  as  a 
piece  of  prose  writing  is  unique,  and  as  forcible  in  its  way  as 
any  English  satire  since  Swift.  To  these  were  added  rollick- 
ing sketches,  in  the  character  of  Sir  Morgan  Odoherty,  who 
was  the  legitimate  parent  of  the  military  and  hard-drinking 
novel  of  Maxwell  and  Lever,  and  a  frequent  interlocutor  in 
the  famous  "  Noctes  Ambrosianse,"  to  which  Dr.  Maginn  con- 
tributed. He  also  wrote  a  series  of  translations  from  Homer 
in  ballad  form,  and  some  criticisms  on  Shakespeare,  which 
show  a  good  deal  of  acuteness  with  a  fatal  fondness  for  para- 
dox. His  strength  was  in  his  humorous  and  satirical  writ- 
ing. He  was  of  a  very  kindly  and  generous  nature  in  spite 
of  the  severity  of  his  satire,  and  his  scholarship  was  very  re- 
markable considering  his  habits  of  life,  although  it  may  be 
said  that  he  did  not  become  a  drunkard  until  his  later  years, 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         191 

and  was  of  a  temperament  easily  affected  and  strongly 
tempted  by  wine.  All  his  writing  was  poured  out  with  the 
greatest  rapidity  and  without  effort,  and  it  is  a  wonder  that 
it  should  show  so  much  finish  and  sparkle.  In  person  he 
was  slight  and  vivacious,  with  prematurely  gray  hair,  bril- 
liant eyes,  and  a  countenance  of  refined  conviviality.  His 
last  days  were  spent  in  destitution,  relieved,  like  those  of  so 
many  of  his  contemporaries,  by  the  munificence  of  Sir  Kob- 
ert  Peel,  whom  he  had  most  bitterly  satirized.  The  first 
of  his  humorous  Irish  songs  were  written  in  order  to  show 
the  unfaithfulness  and  stupidity  of  the  ordinary  "Irish" 
songs,  and  to  ridicule  what  he  called  the  finikin  baccha- 
nalianism  of  Moore;  and  were  entitled  the  "  Genuine  Irish 
Melodies." 

Charles  Lever,  who  is  one  of  the  chief  Irish  novelists,  was 
born  in  Dublin  in  1809  and  died  in  1872,  after  a  long  and 
varied  career  in  authorship,  and  some  social  and  diplomatic 
prominence.  His  earlier  novels,  "  Charles  O'Malley,"  "  Harry 
Lorrequer,"  "  Tom  Burke  of  Ours,"  and  others,  were  written 
in  a  boyish  vein  of  extraordinary  adventure  and  broad  farce, 
and  with  a  very  considerable  freedom  in  introducing  histori- 
cal characters  of  the  Napoleonic  era,  if  not  exactly  accurate  in 
portraiture,  yet  with  remarkable  spirit  and  vividness.  They 
were  always  amusing,  and,  if  not  always  correct  in  all  their 
details,  have  been  accepted  as  the  novels  of  the  British  mili- 
tary service.  In  his  later  novels  he  affected  diplomatic  plots 
and  the  characters  of  accomplished  Continental  society,  who 
were  frequently  represented  with  much  cleverness,  but  with 
an  air  of  exaggeration  in  the  way  of  finesse  and  mystery  as 
marked  as  the  extravagant  exploits  of  his  earlier  heroes. 
All  his  works  give  the  impression  of  having  been  written  in 
haste,  and,  in  spite  of  the  spirit  of  the  first  series  and  the 
cleverness  of  the  second,  they  do  not  convey  the  idea  that 
he  did  full  justice  to  his  real  ability.  Lever,  however,  was 


192      THE  POETS  AND- POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

capable  of  some  very  admirable  writing,  and  the  old  hunts- 
man's lament  in  "Tom  Burke,"  and  the  scene  in  the  Dutch 
summer-house  in  "Arthur  O'Leary,"  are  only  examples  of 
many  distinct  and  powerful  paintings.  In  his  earlier  novels 
he  introduced  a  number  of  songs,  which,  although  showing 
signs  of  haste  and  carelessness,  have  a  real  comic  spirit. 

Samuel  Lover,  who  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1797  and  died  in 
1868,  enjoyed  great  popularity  in  his  day  as  the  author  of  hu- 
morous Irish  stories  and  dramas,  and  comic  and  sentimental 
songs.  His  "  Handy  Andy  "  and  "  Rory  O'More  "  have  prob- 
ably been  more  widely  read  than  any  other  Irish  novels,  and 
some  of  his  songs  attained  a  universal  popularity.  His  novels 
present  the  broadly  humorous  vein  of  Irish  character  with  a 
close  realism  in  dialect,  copied,  however,  from  extraordinary 
rather  than  normal  specimens,  and  with  some  exaggerations 
of  blunder,  but  with  a  power  of  amusement  that  still  keeps 
them  popular.  His  sentimental  songs  were  in  the  vein  of 
Moore  in  elaborate  and  sometimes  happy  fancy,  and  his 
humorous  verses  of  considerable  comic  spirit,  although  not 
accepted  by  the  Irish  people  as  the  thoroughly  faithful  or 
natural  voice  of  the  peasant  muse,  owing  to  an  evident  arti- 
ficiality in  metaphor  and  measure.  They  were  above  the 
quality  of  the  pseudo-Irish  songs,  which  they  succeeded,  but 
hardly  the  genuine  thing. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         193 


BUMPERS,   SQUIRE   JONES. 

"Bumpers,  Squire  Jones,"  was  written  by  Arthur  Dawson,  Chief 
Baron  of  the  Exchequer.  The  legend  is  that  he  and  Carolan  were 
guests  of  Squire  Jones  at  the  hospitable  mansion  of  Moneyglass,  and 
on  the  breaking  up  of  the  company  at  night  occupied  adjacent  rooms. 
The  bard  employed  himself  with  his  harp  in  composing  the  air,  to 
which  he  adapted  some  very  clumsy  English  words.  Baron  Dawson, 
having  caught  the  air  through  the  partition,  wrote  the  song,  and  in 
the  morning  claimed  both  it  and  the  music,  to  the  discomfiture  of 
Carolan.  Whether  this  is  true  or  not,  the  air  is  the  composition  of 
Carolan,  and  the  song,  if  in  any  sense  a  paraphrase  of  his  verses,  a  very 
free  one. 

YE  good  fellows  all, 

Who  love  to  be  told  where  good  claret 's  in  store, 
Attend  to  the  call 

Of  one  who 's  ne'er  frighted, 
But  greatly  delighted 
With  six  bottles  more. 
Be  sure  you  don't  pass 
The  good  house,  Moneyglass, 
Which  the  jolly  red  god  so  peculiarly  owns, 
'T  will  well  suit  your  humor, 
For  pray  what  would  you  more, 
Than  mirth  with  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones  1 

Ye  lovers  who  pine 

For  lasses  that  oft  prove  as  cruel  as  fair, 
WTho  whimper  and  whine 
For  lilies  and  roses, 
With  eyes,  lips,  and  noses, 
Or  tip  of  an  ear ! 

Come  hither,  I  '11  show  ye 
How  Phillis  and  Chloe 
13 


194   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

No  more  shall  occasion  such  sighs  and  such  groans ; 

For  what  mortal 's  so  stupid 

As  not  to  quit  Cupid, 
"When  called  to  good  claret  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones  ? 

Ye  poets  who  write, 

And  brag  of  your  drinking  famed  Helicon's  brook,  — 
Though  all  you  get  by 't 
Is  a  dinner,  ofttimes, 
In  reward  for  your  rhymes, 
With  Humphrey  the  Duke,  — 
Learn  Bacchus  to  follow 
And  quit  your  Apollo, 

Forsake  all  the  Muses,  those  senseless  old  crones  : 
Our  jingling  of  glasses 
Your  rhyming  surpasses, 
When  crowned  with  good  claret  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 

Ye  soldiers  so  stout, 

With  plenty  of  oaths,  though  no  plenty  of  coin, 
Who  make  such  a  rout 
Of  all  your  commanders, 
Who  served  us  in  Flanders, 
And  eke  at  the  Boyne,  — 
Come,  leave  off  your  rattling 
Of  sieging  and  battling, 

And  know  you  'd  much  better  to  sleep  in  whole  bones ; 
Were  you  sent  to  Gibraltar, 
Your  notes  you  'd  soon  alter, 
And  wish  for  good  claret,  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 

Ye  clergy  so  wise, 

Who  mysteries  profound  can  demonstrate  so  clear, 
How  worthy  to  rise  ! 
You  preach  once  a  week, 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         195 

But  your  tithes  never  seek 
Above  once  in  a  year  ! 

Come  here  without  failing, ' 

And  leave  off  your  railing 
'Gainst  bishops  providing  for  dull  stupid  drones ; 

Says  the  text  so  divine, 

"  What  is  life  without  wine  ? " 
Then  away  with  the  claret,  —  a  bumper,  Squire  Jones. 

Ye  lawyers  so  just, 

Be  the  cause  what  it  will  you  so  learnedly  plead, 
How  worthy  of  trust ! 

You  know  black  from  white, 
You  prefer  wrong  to  right, 
As  you  chance  to  be  feed ; 
Leave  musty  reports 
And  forsake  the  kings'  courts 

"Where  dulness  and  discord  have  set  up  their  thrones ; 
Burn  Salkeld  and  Ventris,* 
And  all  your  damned  entries 
And  away  with  the  claret,  —  a  bumper,  Squire  Jones. 

Ye  physical  tribe, 

Whose  knowledge  consists  in  hard  words  and  grimace 
Whene'er  you  prescribe, 
Have  at  your  devotion 
Pills,  bolus,  or  potion, 
Be  what  will  the  case ; 
Pray  where  is  the  need 
To  purge,  blister,  and  bleed  ? 
When,  ailing  yourselves,  the  whole  faculty  owns 
That  the  forms  of  old  Galen 
Are  not  so  prevailing 

As  mirth  with  good  claret  —  and  bumpers,  Squire  Jones. 
*  Law  commentators  of  the  time. 


196       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Ye  fox-hunters  eke, 

That  follow  the  call  of  the  horn  and  the  hound, 
Who  your  ladies  forsake 
Before  they  're  awake 
To  beat  up  the  brake 
Where  the  vermin  is  found  : 
Leave  piper  and  Blueman, 
Shrill  Duchess  and  Trueman,  — 
No  music  is  found  in  such  dissonant  tones ! . 
Would  you  ravish  your  ears 
With  the  songs  of  the  spheres, 
Hark  away  to  the  claret,  —  a  bumper,  Squire  Jones ! 


THE   CRUISKEEN    LAWN. 

"  The  Cruiskeen  Lawn  "  —  the  little  jug  —  is  probably  the  most  popu- 
lar of  all  the  Irish  drinking-songs,  and  is  still  to  be  heard  at  convivial 
meetings  and  in  music  halls. 

LET  the  farmer  praise  his  grounds, 
Let  the  huntsman  praise  his  hounds, 

The  farmer  his  sweet-scented  lawn  ; 
While  I,  more  blest  than  they, 
Spend  each  happy  night  and  day 

With  my  smiling  little  cruiskeen  lawn. 
Gra-ma-chree  ma  cruiskeen 
Slainte  geal  ma  vourneen, 

Gra-ma-chree  a  coolin  bawn  bawn  bawn, 
Gra-ma-chree  a  coolin 


*  My  heart's  love  is  my  little  jug, 
Bright  health  to  my  darling, 
My  heart's  love,  her  fair  locks. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         197 

Immortal  and  divine, 
Great  Bacchus,  god  of  wine, 

Create  me  by  adoption  your  son. 
In  hope  that  you  '11  comply, 
That  my  glass  shall  ne'er  run  dry, 

Nor  my  smiling  little  cruiskeen  laton, 
Gra-ma-chree,  etc. 

And  when  grim  Death  appears, 
After  few  but  happy  years, 

And  tells  me  my  glass  it  is  run, 
I  '11  say,  Begone,  you  slave  ! 
For  great  Bacchus  gives  me  leave 

Just  to  fill  another  cruiskeen  lawn. 
Gra-ma-chree,  etc. 

Then  fill  your  glasses  high, 
Let 's  not  part  with  lips  adry, 

Though  the  lark  now  proclaims  it  is  dawn. 
And  since  we  can't  remain 
May  we  shortly  meet  again, 

To  fill  another  cruiskeen  laivn. 
Gra-ma-chree,  etc. 


GARRYOWEN. 

The  air  of  Ganyowen  is  familiar  as  one  of  the  most  inspiring  of 
•marching  tunes,  and  the  old  song  itself  has  been  preserved  as  an  archaic 
favorite  at  the  gatherings  of  Bohemians.  It  will  be  remembered  that 
Thackeray  frequently  speaks  of  it,  and  makes  it  the  favorite  song  of 
Philip  Firmin. 

LET  Bacchus'  sons  be  not  dismayed 
But  join  with  me  each  jovial  blade  : 
Come  booze  and  sing  and  lend  your  aid 
To  help  me  with  the  chorus. 


198   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Instead  of  Spa  we  '11  drink  brown  ale, 
And  pay  the  reckoning  on  the  nail  j 
No  man  for  debt  shall  go  to  jail 
From  Garryowen  *  na  gloria. 

We  are  the  boys  that  take  delight  in 
Smashing  the  Limerick  lamps  when  lighting, 
Through  the  streets  like  sporters  fighting, 
And  tearing  all  before  us. 
Instead  of,  etc. 

We  '11  break  windows,  we  '11  break  doors, 
The  watch  knock  down  by  threes  and  fours ; 
Then  let  the  doctors  work  their  cures, 
And  tinker  up  our  bruises. 
Instead  of,  etc. 

We'll  beat  the  bailiffs,  out  of  fun, 
We  '11  make  the  mayor  and  sheriffs  run ; 
We  are  the  boys  no  man  dares  dun, 
If  he  regards  a  whole  skin. 
Instead  of,  etc. 

Our  hearts  so  stout  have  got  us  fame, 
For  soon  't  is  known  from  whence  we  came ; 
Where'er  we  go,  they  dread  the  name 
Of  Garryowen  in  glory. 
Instead  of,  etc. 

Johnny  Connell  's  tall  and  straight, 
And  in  his  limbs  he  is  complete ; 
He  '11  pitch  a  bar  of  any  weight 

From  Garryowen  to  Thomond  gate. 
Instead  of,  etc. 

*  Garryowen  na  gloria,  Garryowen  in  glory.    Garryowen,  or  Owen's 
Garden,  was  a  pleasure  resort  near  Limerick. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         199 

Garryowen  is  gone  to  wrack 
Since  Johnny  Connell  went  to  Cork, 
Though  Darby  O'Brien  leaped  over  the  dock, 
In  spite  of  all  the  soldiers. 
Instead  of,  etc. 


THE   RAKES   OF   MALLOW. 

"The  Bakes  of  Mallow"  was  almost  equally  a  favorite  with  Garry- 
owen.  Mallow,  in  the  County  Cork,  was  a  favorite  watering-place, 
where  there  were  some  medicinal  springs. 

BEAUING,  belleing,  dancing,  drinking, 
Breaking  windows,  damning,  sinking,* 
Ever  raking,  never  thinking, 
Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

Spending  faster  than  it  comes, 
Beating  waiters,  bailiffs,  duns, 
Bacchus'  true-begotten  sons, 
Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

One  time  naught  but  claret  drinking, 
Then  like  politicians  thinking 
To  raise  the  sinking  funds  when  sinking, 
Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

When  at  home  with  dadda  dying, 
Still  for  Mallow  water  crying ; 
But  where  there  is  good  claret  plying 
Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

*  "  Sinking,"  damning  to  hell  and  sinking  him  farther. 


200      THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IRELAND. 

Living  short  but  merry  lives, 
Going  where  the  Devil  drives, 
Having  sweethearts  but  no  wives, 
Live  the  rakes  of  Mallow. 

Racking  tenants,  stewards  teasing, 
Swiftly  spending,  slowly  raising, 
Wishing  to  spend  all  their  days  in 
Raking  as  in  Mallow. 

Then  to  end  this  raking  life 
They  get  sober,  take  a  wife, 
Ever  after  live  in  strife, 

And  wish  again  for  Mallow. 


ONE   BOTTLE   MORE. 

ASSIST  me,  ye  lads,  who  have  hearts  void  of  guile, 
To  sing  out  the  praises  of  ould  Ireland's  isle; 
Where  true  hospitality  opens  the  door, 
And  friendship  detains  us  for  one  bottle  more. 

One  bottle  more,  arrah,  one  bottle  more ; 

And  friendship  detains  us  for  one  bottle  more. 

Old  England  your  taunts  on  our  country  forbear ; 
With  our  bulls  and  our  brogues  we  are  true  and  sincere ; 
For  if  but  one  bottle  remains  in  our  store, 
We  have  generous  hearts  to  give  that  bottle  more. 
One  bottle  more,  etc. 

At  Candy's,  in  Church  Street,  I  '11  sing  of  a  set 
Of  six  Irish  blades  who  together  had  met ; 


CONYIYIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         201 

Four  bottles  apiece  made  us  call  for  our  score, 
For  nothing  remained  but  just  one  bottle  more. 
One  bottle  more,  etc. 

Our  bill  being  brought,  we  were  loath  to  depart,      - 
For  friendship  had  grappled  each  man  by  the  heart, 
Where  the  least  touch,  you  know,  makes  an  Irishman  roar, 
And  the  whack  from  shillelah  brought  six  bottles  more. 
Six  bottles  more,  etc. 

Swift  Phoebus  now  shone  through  our  window  so  bright, 
Quite  happy  to  view  his  glad  children  of  light ; 
So  we  parted  with  hearts  neither  sorry  nor  sore, 
Resolving  next  night  to  drink  twelve  bottles  more. 
Twelve  bottles  more,  etc. 


THE   MONKS    OF   THE   SCREW. 

The  edifying  song  of  "The  Monks  of  the  Screw  "  was  written  by 
John  Philpot    Curran,  who  was  Prior  of  the  order. 

WHEN  St.  Patrick  this  order  established, 

He  called  us  "  The  Monks  of  the  Screw." 
Good  rules  he  revealed  to  our  Abbot 

To  guide  us  in  what  we  should  do ; 
But  first  he  replenished  our  fountain 

With  liquor  the  best  in  the  sky, 
And  pledged  on  the  faith  of  his  saintship 

That  the  fountain  should  never  run  dry. 

Each  year,  when  your  octaves  approach, 
In  full  chapter  convened  let  me  find  you ; 

And  when  to  the  Convent  you  come, 

Leave  your  favorite  temptation  behind  you. 


202      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

And  be  not  a  glass  in  your  Convent 

Unless  on  a  festival  found ; 
And  this  rule  to  enforce,  I  ordain  it 

A  festival  all  the  year  round. 

My  brethren,  be  chaste,  till  you  're  tempted  ; 

While  sober,  be  grave  and  discreet ; 
And  humble  your  bodies  with  fasting 

As  oft  as  you  get  nothing  to  eat. 
Yet  in  honor  of  fasting  one  lean  face 

Among  you  I  'd  always  require  : 
If  the  Abbot  *  should  please,  he  may  wear  it, 

If  not,  let  it  come  to  the  Prior. 

Come,  let  each  take  his  chalice,  my  brethren, 

And  with  due  devotion  prepare, 
With  hands  and  with  voices  uplifted, 

Our  hymn,  to  conclude  with  a  prayer. 
May  this  chapter  oft  joyously  meet, 

And  this  gladsome  libation  renew, 
To  the  Saint  and  the  Founder,  and  Abbot, 

And  Prior,  and  Monks  of  the  Screw. 


BARRY   OF   MACROOM. 

The  hero  whose  drinking  exploits  are  thus  recorded  is  otherwise  un- 
known to  fame.     Macroom  is  a  small  village  in  the  county  of  Cork. 

0,  WHAT  is  Dan  MacCarty,  or  what  is  old  Jem  Nash, 
Or  all  who  e'er  in  punch-drinking  by  luck  have  cut  a  dash, 
Compared  to  that  choice  hero,  whose  praise  my  rhymes  per- 
fume, — 
I  mean  the  boast  of  Erin's  isle,  bold  Barry  of  Macroom  *? 

*  William  Doyle,  Master  in  Chancery,  was  the  Abbot,  and  had  a  broad, 
beaming  countenance,  while  Curran's  was  thin. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         203 
7T  was  on  a  summer's  morning  bright  that  Barry  shone  most 

gay> 

He  had  of  friends  a  chosen  few,  to  dine  with  him  that  day; 
And  to  himself  he  coolly  said  (joy  did  his  eyes  illume), 
I  '11  show  my  guests  there 's  few  can  match  bold  Barry  of 
Macroom. 

The  dinner  was  despatched,  and  they  brought  six  gallon  jugs 
Of  whiskey-punch;  and  after  them   eight   huge  big-bellied 

mugs; 
And  soon  all  'neath  the  table  lay,  swept  clean  as  with  a 

broom, 
Except  the  boast  of  Erin's  isle,  bold  Barry  of  Macroom. 

Now  Barry  rose,  and  proudly  cried,  "  By  Judy,  I  '11  go  down, 
And  call  into  each  whiskey  shop  that  decorates  our  town ; 
For  lots  of  whiskey  punch  is  here  for  master  and  for  groom, 
If  they  '11  come  up  and  drink  it  with  bold  Barry  of  Macroom." 

Thus  Barry  soon  he  brought  with  him  a  choice,  hard-drinking 

set 

As  ever  at  a  punch  table  on  Patrick's  day  had  met ; 
Yet  soon  upon  the  floor  they  lay, — a  low,  disgraceful  doom,  — 
While  like  a  giant  fresh  and  strong  rose  Barry  of  Macroom  ! 

Then  Barry  went  unto  his  wife,  and  to  his  turtle  said, 

"  My  dear,  I  now  have  had  enough,  therefore  I  '11  go  to  bed ; 

But  as  I  may  be  thirsty  soon,  just  mix  it  in  the  room 

A  gallon-jug  of  punch,  quite  weak,  for  Barry  of  Macroom." 


204      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   NIGHTCAP. 

The  author  of  this  clever  imitation  of  the  classical  form  was  Thomas 
Hamblin  Porter,  a  scholar  of  Trinity  College  in  1817. 

JOLLY  Phoebus  his  car  to  the  coach-house  had  driven, 
And  unharnessed  his  high-mettled  horses  of  light ; 

He  gave  them  a  feed  from  the  manger  of  heaven, 

And  rubbed  them  and  littered  them  down  for  the  night. 

Then  down  to  the  kitchen  he  leisurely  strode, 

Where  Thetis,  the  housemaid,  was  sipping  her  tea ; 

He  swore  he  was  tired  with  that  damned  up-hill  road, 
He  'd  have  none  of  her  slops  and  hot  water,  not  he. 

So  she  took  from  the  corner  a  little  cruiskeen 
Well  filled  with  the  nectar  Apollo  loves  best ; 

From  the  near  bog  of  Allen,  some  pretty  potteen, 
And  he  tippled  his  quantum  and  staggered  to  rest. 

His  many-caped  box  coat  around  him  he  threw, 

For  his  bed,  faith,  't  was  dampish  and  none  of  the  best ; 

All  above  him  the  clouds  their  bright  fringed  curtains  drew, 
And  the  tuft  of  his  nightcap  lay  red  in  the  west. 


ST.  PATRICK. 

DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN.- 

A  FIG  for  St.  Dennis  of  France, 
He 's  a  trumpery  fellow  to  brag  on 

A  fig  for  St.  George  and  his  lance, 
Which  spitted  a  heathenish  dragon 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         205 

And  the  saints  of  the  Welshman  or  Scot 

Are  a  couple  of  pitiful  pipers, 
Both  of  whom  may  just  travel  to  pot, 

Compared  to  the  patron  of  swipers, 

St.  Patrick  of  Ireland,  my  dear. 

He  came  to  the  Emerald  isle 

On  a  lump  of  a  paving-stone  mounted ; 
The  steamboat  he  beat  to  a  mile, 

Which  mighty  good  sailing  was  counted. 
Says  he,  "  The  salt  water  I  think 

Has  made  me  most  bloodily  thirsty, 
So  bring  me  a  flagon  of  drink 

To  keep  down  the  mulligrubs,  burst  ye, 
Of  drink  that  is  fit  for  a  saint." 

He  preached  then  with  wonderful  force, 

The  ignorant  natives  a-teaching ; 
With  a  pint  he  washed  down  his  discourse, 

"  For,"  says  he,  "  I  detest  your  dry  teaching." 
The  people,  with  wonderment  struck 

At  a  pastor  so  pious  and  civil, 
Exclaimed,  "  We  're  for  you,  my  old  buck, 

And  we  pitch  our  blind  gods  to  the  devil, 
Who  dwells  in  hot  water  below." 

This  ended,  our  worshipful  spoon 

Went  to  visit  an  elegant  fellow, 
Whose  practice  each  cool  afternoon 

Was  to  get  most  delightfully  mellow. 
That  day,  with  a  black-jack  of  beer, 

It  chanced  he  was  treating  a  party ; 
Says  the  saint,  "  This  good  day  do  you  hear, 

I  drank  nothing  to  speak  of,  my  hearty, 
So  give  me  a  pull  at  the  pot." 


206      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

The  pewter  he  lifted  in  sport, 

(Believe  me,  I  tell  you  no  fable,) 
A  gallon  he  drank  from  the  quart 

And  planted  it  full  on  the  table. 
"  A  miracle,"  every  one  said, 

And  they  all  took  a  haul  at  the  stingo. 
They  were  capital  hands  at  the  trade 

And  drank  till  they  fell ;  yet,  by  jingo  ! 

The  pot  still  frothed  over  the  brim. 

Next  day,  quoth  his  host,  "  'T  is  a  fast, 

But  I  Ve  naught  in  my  larder  but  mutton, 
And  on  Fridays  who  'd  make  such  a  repast 

Except  an  unchristian-like  glutton  ? " 
Says  Pat,  "  Cease  your  nonsense,  I  beg, 

What  you  tell  me  is  nothing  but  gammon ; 
Take  my  compliments  down  to  the  leg, 

And  bid  it  come  hither  a  salmon  ! " 

And  the  leg  most  politely  complied. 

You  Ve  heard,  I  suppose,  long  ago, 

How  the  snakes  in  a  manner  most  antic 
He  marched  to  the  County  Mayo, 

And  tumbled  them  into  the  Atlantic. 
Hence  not  to  use  water  for  drink 

The  people  of  Ireland  determine ; 
With  mighty  good  reason,  I  think, 

Since  St.  Patrick  has  filled  it  with  vermin, 
And  vipers,  and  other  such  stuff. 

0,  he  was  an  elegant  blade 

As  you  'd  meet  from  Fair  Head  to  Kilcrumper, 
And  though  under  the  sod  he  is  laid, 

Yet  here  goes  his  health  in  a  bumper ! 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         207 

I  wish  he  was  here,  that  my  glass 
He  might  by  art  magic  replenish  ; 

But  as  he  is  not,  why,  alas  ! 

My  ditty  must  come  to  a  finish, 
Because  all  the  liquor  is  out. 


THE    GATHERING    OF    THE   MAHONYS. 
DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 

JERRY  Mahony,  arrah,  my  jewel !  come,  let  us  be  off  to  the  fair, 
For  the  Donovans  all  in  their  glory  most  certainly  mean  to  be 

there ; 
Says  they,  "  The  whole  Mahony  faction  we  '11  banish  'em  out 

clear  and  clean," 
But  it  never  was  yet  in  their  breeches  their  bullaboo  words 

to  maintain. 

There 's  Darby  to  head  us,  and  Barney,  as  civil  a  man  as  yet 
spoke, 

'T  would  make  your  mouth  water  to  see  him,  just  giving  a  bit 
of  a  stroke. 

There 's  Corney,  the  bandy-legged  tailor,  a  boy  of  the  true 
sort  of  stuff, 

Who  'd  fight  though  the  black  blood  was  flowing  like  butter- 
milk out  of  his  buff. 

There 's  broken-nosed  Bat  from  the  mountain,  —  last  week  he 

burst  out  of  jail,  — 
And  Murty,  the  beautiful  Tory,  who  'd  scorn  in  a  row  to  turn 

tail; 


208      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Bloody  Bill  will  be  there  like  a  darling,  and  Jerry,  och,  let 

him  alone, 
For  giving  his  black-thorn  a  flourish  or  lifting  a  lump  of  a 

stone. 

And  Tim,  who  served  in  the  militia,  has  his  bayonet  stuck  on 

a  pole ; 
Foxy  Dick  has  his  scythe  in  good  order,  a  neat  sort  of  tool  on 

the  whole ; 

A  cudgel  I  see  is  your  weapon,  and  never  I  knew  it  to  fail ; 
But  I  think  that  a  man  is  more  handy  who  fights,  as  I  do, 

with  a  flail. 


We  muster  a  hundred  shillelahs,  all  handled  by  elegant  men, 
Who  battered  the  Donovans  often,  and  now  will  go  do  it  again ; 
To-day  we  will  teach  them  some  manners,  and  show  that,  in 

spite  of  their  talk, 
We  still,  like  our  fathers  before  us,  are  surely  the  cocks  of  the 

walk. 


After  cutting  out  work  for  the  sexton  by  smashing  a  dozen 

or  so, 
We  '11  quit  in  the  utmost  of  splendor,  and  down  to  Peg  Slat- 

tery's  go ; 
In  gallons  we  '11  wash  down  the  battle,  and  drink  to  the  next 

merry  day, 
When,  mustering  again  in  a  body,  we  all  shall  go  leathering 

away. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         209 

•* 

CORK  IS   THE   EDEN   FOR  YOU,  LOVE,  AND   ME. 
N          DR.  WILLIAM  MAGINN. 

THEY  may  rail  at  the  city  where  I  was  first  born, 

But  it 's  there  they  've  the  whiskey  and  butter  and  pork, 
An*  a  nate  little  spot  to  walk  in  each  morn,  — 

The  place  is  Daunt's  Square,  and  the  city  is  Cork ! 
The  square  has  two  sides,  why,  one  east  and  one  west ; 

And  convanient  's  the  region  for  frolic  and  spree, 
Where  salmon,  drisheens,  and  beefsteaks  are  cooked  best, 

Och,  Fishamble  !  the  Aiden  for  you,  love,  and  me ! 

If  you  want  to  behold  the  sublime  and  the  beauteous, 

Put  your  toes  in  your  brogues  and  see  sweet  Blarney  Lane, 
Where  the  parents  and  childer  is  comely  and  duteous, 

And  dry  lodging  both  rider  and  beast  entertain ; 
In  the  cellars  below  dines  the  slashin'  young  fellows 

What  comes  with  the  butter  from  distant  Tralee  ; 
WThile  the  landlady  chalking  the  score  on  the  bellows 

Sings  Cork  is  an  Aiden  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

Blackpool  is  another  sweet  place  of  that  city, 

Where  pigs,  twigs,  and  wavers  they  all  grow  together. 

With  its  small  little  tanyards  —  och,  more  is  the  pity  !  — 
,     To  trip  the  poor  beasts  to  convert  them  to  leather ! 

Farther  up  to  the  east  is  a  place  great  and  famous, 
It  is  called  Mallow  Lane  :  antiquaries  agree 

That  it  holds  the  shebeen  that  once  held  King  Shamus.* 
0,  Cork  is  an  Aiden  for  you,  love,  and  me ! 

*  King  James  II.,  who  landed  in  Cork  with  the  French  expedition. 
14 


210      THE  POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  IRELAND. 

Then  go  back  to  Daunt's  bridge,  though  you'll  think  it  is  quare 

That  you  can't  see  the  bridge  : — faix,  you  ne'er  saw  the  like 
Of  that  bridge,  nor  of  one-sided  Buckingham  Square, 

Nor  the  narrow  Broad  Lane  that  leads  up  to  the  Dyke,* 
Where  turning  his  wheel  sits  that  saint,  "  Holy  Joe," 

And  n umbrellas  are  made  of  the  best  quality, 
And  young  vargints  sing,  "Colleen  dhas  croothen  a  mo,"t 

And  Cork  is  an  Aiden  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

"When  you  gets  to  the  Dyke  there 's  a  beautiful  prospect 

Of  a  long  gravel  walk  between  two  rows  of  trees ; 
On  one  side,  with  a  beautiful  southern  aspect, 

Is  Blair's  castle,  that  trembles  above  in  the  breeze  j 
Far  off  to  the  west  lies  the  lakes  of  Killarney, 

Which  some  hills  intervening  prevents  you  to  see ; 
But  you  smell  the  sweet  wind  from  the  wild  groves  of  Blarney, 

Och,  Cork  is  the  Aiden,  for  you,  love,  and  me ! 

Take  the  road  to  Glanmire,  the  road  to  Blackrock,  or, 

The  sweet  Boreemanah  to  charm  your  eyes ; 
If  you  doubt  what  is  wise,  take  a  dram  of  Tom  Walker, 

And  if  you  're  a  walker,  toss  off  Tommy  Wise.  J 
I  give  you  my  word  they  are  both  lads  of  spirit ; 

But  if  a  raw  chaw  with  your  gums  don't  agree, 
Beamish,  Crawford,  and  Lane  brew  some  porter  of  merit, 

Tho'  potheen  §  is  the  nectar  for  you,  love,  and  me. 

0,  long  life  to  you,  Cork,  with  your  pepper-box  steeple,  || 
Your  girls,  your  whiskey,  your  curds  and  sweet  whey, 

*  The  MardjTke  walk,  a  beautiful  elm-tree  walk  in  Cork. 

t  Colleen  dhas  croothen  a  mo,  The  pretty  girl  milking  her  cow,  — a  favor- 
ite Irish  song. 

J  Walker  and  Wise  were  rival  whiskey-distillers  in  Cork  at  that  time. 

§  Potheen,  the  illicit  whiskey  of  Ireland. 

||  The  steeple  of  Shandon  church,  built  of  alternate  red  and  white  stone 
sides. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         211 

Your  hill  of  Glanmire,  and  shops  where  the  people 
Gets  decent  new  clothes  down  beyant  the  coal  quay ! 

Long  life  to  sweet  Fair  Lane,  its  pipers  and  jigs, 

And  to  sweet  Sunday's  Wells  and  the  banks  of  the  Lee  ! 

Likewise  to  your  court-house,  where  judges  in  wigs 
Sing  Cork  is  an  Aiden  for  you,  love,  and  me  ! 


THE   GROVES    OF   BLARNEY. 

The  following  is  vouched  for  by  T.  Crofton  Croker  as  the  original 
and  correct  version  of  "The  Groves  of  Blarney,"  as  written  by  Milliken. 

THE  groves  of  Blarney,  they  are  so  charming, 

All  by  the  purling  of  sweet  silent  streams ; 
Being  banked  by  posies  that  spontaneous  grow  there, 

Planted  in  order  by  the  sweet  rock  close. 
'T  is  there  's  the  daisy  and  the  sweet  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink  and  the  rose  so  fair ; 
The  daffydowndilly  besides  the  lily,  — 

Flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  fragrant  air. 
Oh,  Ullagoane. 

'T  is  Lady  Jeffreys  that  owns  this  station, 

Like  Alexander  or  Queen  Helen  fair ; 
There  's  no  commander  throughout  the  nation 

For  emulation  can  with  her  compare. 
She  has  castles  round  her  that  no  nine-pounder 

Could  dare  to  plunder  her  place  of  strength  ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell  he  did  her  pummel, 

And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 
Oh,  Ullagoane. 


212      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

There 's  gravel  walks  there  for  speculation, 

And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude ; 
'T  is  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 

The  gentle  plover,  in  the  afternoon, 
And  if  a  young  lady  should  be  so  engaging 

As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bowers, 
'T  is  there  her  courtier  he  may  transport  her 

In  some  dark  fort  or  under  ground. 
Oh,  Ullagoane. 

For  't  is  there  's  the  cave  where  no  daylight  enters, 

But  bats  and  badgers  are  forever  bred ; 
Being  mossed  by  nature,  that  makes  it  sweeter 

Than  a  coach  and  six,  or  a  feather  bed. 
'T  is  there  's  the  lake  that  is  stored  with  perches, 

And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud ; 
Besides  the  leeches,  and  groves  of  beeches, 

All  standing  in  order  for  to  guard  the  flood. 
Oh,  Ullagoane. 

'T  is  there 's  the  kitchen  hangs  many  a  flitch  in, 

With  the  maids  a  stitching  upon  the  stair ; 
The  head  and  biske,  the  beer  and  whiskey, 

Would  make  you  frisky  if  you  were  there. 
'T  is  there  you  'd  see  Peg  Murphy's  daughter, 

A  washing  praties  forenent  the  door, 
With  Roger  Cleary,  and  Father  Healy, 

All  blood  relations  to  my  Lord  Donoughmore. 
Oh,  Ullagoane. 

There 's  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in, 

All  heathen  goddesses  so  fair,  — 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nicodemus, 

All  standing  naked  in  the  open  air. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS   SONGS.         213 

So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 
Which  bay  poor  geni  could  not  entwine, 
But  were  I  Homer  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 
In  every  feature  I  'd  make  it  shine. 
Oh,  Ullagoane. 


THE   BOYS    OF    KILKENNY. 

There  is  a  quaint  grace  about  this  little  song  which  has  always  made 
it  a  favorite.  Croker  thinks  it  may  have  been  written  by  Moore,  who 
took  part  in  the  amateur  theatricals  at  Kilkenny,  which  were  attended 
and  shared  in  by  some  of  the  most  brilliant  society  in  Ireland  of  the 
time,  and  where  Miss  O'Neill,  the  famous  actress,  was  won  by  her  hus- 
band, Sir  Thomas  Wrixon  Becher. 

0,  THE  boys  of  Kilkenny  are  nate  roving  blades, 
And  whenever  they  meet  with  the  nice  little  maids, 
They  kiss  them  and  coax  them,  and  spend  their  money  free ! 
0,  of  all  the  towns  in  Ireland,  Kilkenny  for  me  ! 

Through  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  runs  a  clear  stream, 
In  the  town  of  Kilkenny  there  lives  a  fair  dame  ; 
Her  cheeks  are  like  roses,  and  her  lips  much  the  same, 
Or  a  dish  of  ripe  strawberries  smothered  in  cream. 

Her  eyes  are  as  black  as  Kilkenny's  famed  coal, 

And  't  is  they  through  my  poor  heart  have  burned  a  big  hole ; 

Her  mind,  like  its  river,  is  deep,  clear,  and  pure, 

And  her  heart  is  more  hard  than  its  marble,  I  'm  sure. 

0,  Kilkenny 's  a  fine  town,  that  shines  where  it  stands, 
And  the  more  I  think  on  it  the  more  my  heart  warms ! 
If  I  was  in  Kilkenny  I  'd  feel  quite  at  home, 
For  it 's  there  I  'd  get  sweethearts,  but  here  I  get  none. 


214      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


PURTY   MOLLY  BRALLAGHAN. 

This  very  spirited  comic  song  was  written  by  a  "lady  of  quality," 
who  was,  however,  unwilling  that  her  name  should  be  attached  to  this 
vagary  of  her  muse. 

AH,  then,  ma'am  dear,  did  you  never  hear  of  purty  Molly 

Brallaghan  1 

Troth,  dear,  I  've  lost  her  and  I  '11  never  be  a  man  again, 
Not  a  spot  on  my  hide  will  another  summer  tan  again, 

Since  Molly  she  has  left  me  all  alone  for  to  die. 
The  place  where  my  heart  was  you  might  aisy  rowl  a  turnip  in, 
It 's  the  size  of  all  Dublin  and  from  Dublin  to  the  Devil's  glen ; 
If  she  chose  to  take  another,  sure  she  might  have  sent  mine 
back  agin, 

And  not  to  leave  me  here  all  alone  for  to  die. 

Ma'am  dear,  I  remember  when  the  milking  time  was  past  and 

gone, 
We  went  into  the  meadows,  where  she  swore  I  was  the  only 

man 
That  ever  she  could  love ;  yet,  0  the  base  and  cruel  one, 

After  all  that  to  leave  me  here  alone  for  to  die ! 
Ma'am  dear,  I  remember  as  we  came  home  the  rain  began, 
I  rowled  her  in  my  frieze  coat,  though  the  devil  a  waistcoat 

I  had  on, 
And  my  shirt  was  rather  fine  drawn,  yet,  0  the  base  and  cruel 

one, 
After  all  that  to  leave  me  here  all  alone  for  to  die ! 

I  went  and  towld  my  tale  to  Father  McDonnell,  ma'am, 
And  then  I  wint  and  axed  advice  of  Counsellor  O'Connell, 
ma'am. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         215 

He  towld  me  promise-breaches  had  been  ever  since  the  world 

began. 

Now  I  have  but  the  one  pair,  ma'am,  and  they  are  corduroy. 
Arrah,  what  could  he  mean,  ma'am?  or  what  would  you 

advise  me  to  ? 
Must  my  corduroys  to  Molly  go  ?    In  troth  I  'm  bothered  what 

to  do : 

I  can't  afford  to  lose  both  my  heart  and  my  breeches  too. 
Yet  what  need  I  care,  when  I  've  only  to  die  ? 

0,  the  left  side  of  my  carcass  is  as  wake  as  water-gruel, 

ma'am ! 
The  devil  a  bit  upon  my  bones  since  Molly 's  proved  so  cruel, 

ma'am. 

I  wish  I  had  a  carabine,  I  'd  go  and  fight  a  duel,  ma'am  : 
Sure  it 's  better  far  to  kill  myself  than  stay  here  to  die. 
I  'm  hot  and  detarmined  as  a  live  salamander,  ma'am. 
Won't  you  come  to  my  wake,  when  I  go  my  long  meander,* 

ma'am  1 
0,  I'll  feel   myself  as  valiant  as  the  famous   Alexander, 

ma'am, 
When  I  hear  yez  cryin'  round  me,  Arrah,  why  did  ye  die  1 


RORY   O'MORE. 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 

"Rory  O'More"  and  "The  Low-backed  Car"  were  two  of  the  most 
popular  of  Lover's  Irish  songs,  and  once  enjoyed  a  vogue  equal  to  any 
of  the  airs  that  are  the  common  property  of  the  people  until  they  are 
utterly  worn  out. 

YOUNG  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  the  hawk,  she  soft  as  the  dawn ; 

*  The  long  meander  is  very  descriptive  of  an  Irish  funeral  procession 
in  the  country. 


216   T-HE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please, 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 

"  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 

Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye ; 

"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know  in  troth  what  I  'm  about, 

Faith,  you  've  teased  till  I  've  put  on  my  cloak  inside  out ! " 

"  Och,  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the  way 

You  've  thrated  my  heart  this  many  a  day, 

And  't  is  plased  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ? 

For  it 's  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think  of  the  like, 

For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike, 

For  the  ground  that  I  walk  on,  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Faith,"  says  Rory,  "  I  'd  rather  love  you  than  the  ground." 

"  Now,  Rory,  I  '11  cry,  if  you  don't  let  me  go ; 

Sure  I  dhrame  every  night  that  I  'm  hating  you  so." 

"  Och,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  I  'm  delighted  to  hear ; 

For  dhrames  always  go  by  contraries,  my  dear. 

So,  jewel,  keep  dhramin'  that  same  till  you  die, 

And  bright  mornin'  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie ; 

And  't  is  plased  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure  ] 

Since  't  is  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you  've  tased  me  enough, 
Sure  I  've  thrashed  for  your  sake  Dinny  Grimes  and  Jim  Duff, 
And  I  've  made  myself  drinking  your  health  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think  after  that  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck ; 
And  he  looked  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with  light, 
And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips.     Don't  you  think  he  was  right  1 
"  Now,  Rory,  leava  off,  sir,  you  '11  hug  me  no  more, 
That 's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me  before." 
"  Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "  to  make  sure ; 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUIS  SONGS'.         217 

THE   LOW-BACKED   CAR. 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  sweet  Peggy, 

'T  was  on  a  market  day, 
A  low-backed  car  she  drove,  and  sat 

Upon  a  truss  of  hay. 
And  when  that  hay  was  blooming  grass, 

And  decked  with  flowers  pf  spring, 
No  flower  was  there  that  could  compare 

With  the  blooming  girl  I  sing. 
As  she  sat  in  the  low-backed  car, 

The  man  at  the  turnpike  bar 
Never  asked  for  the  toll, 
But  just  rubbed  his  oiild  poll 

And  looked  after  the  low-backed  car. 

In  battle's  wild  commotion, 

The  proud  and  mighty  Mars 
With  hostile  scythes  demands  his  tithes 

Of  death  —  in  warlike  cars ; 
While  Peggy,  peaceful  goddess, 

Has  darts  in  her  right  eye, 
That  knock  men  down  in  the  market  town, 

As  right  and  left  they  fly,  — 
While  she  sits  in  her  low-backed  car, 

Than  battle  more  dangerous  far, 
For  the  doctor's  art 
Cannot  cure  the  heart 

That  is  hit  from  that  low-backed  car. 

Sweet  Peggy  round  her  car,  sir, 
Has  strings  of  ducks  and  geese, 


218      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  the  scores  of  hearts  she  slaughters 

By  far  outnumber  these, 
While  she  among  her  poultry  sits, 

Just  like  a  turtle  dove, 
Well  worth  the  cage,  I  do  engage, 

Of  the  blooming  god  of  love  ! 
While  she  sits  in  the  low-backed  car 
The  lovers  come  near  and  far, 

And  envy  the  chicken 

That  Peggy  is  pickin* 
As  she  sits  in  the  low-backed  car. 


0,  I  'd  rather  own  that  car,  sir, 

With  Peggy  by  my  side, 
Than  a  coach  and  four,  and  gold  galore* 

And  a  lady  for  my  bride. 
For  the  lady  would  sit  fornenst  me 

On  a  cushion  made  with  taste, 
And  Peggy  would  sit  beside  me 

With  my  arm  around  her  waist,  — 
While  we  drove  in  the  low-backed  car 
To  be  married  by  Father  Maher. 

0,  my  heart  would  beat  high 

At  her  glance  and  her  sigh, 
Though  it  beat  in  a  low-backed  car ! 

*  Galore,  plenty. 


•       CONVIVIAL  AND.  HUMOROUS  SONGS.        219 

DARBY,  THE  BLAST. 

CHAELES  LEVEE. 

0,  MY  name  it  is  Darby,  the  Blast ! 

My  country  is  Ireland  all  over ; 
My  religion  is  never  to  fast, 

But  live,  as  I  wander,  in  clover ; 
To  make  fun  for  myself  every  day, 

The  ladies  to  plase  when  I  'm  able,    % 
The  boys  to  amuse  as  I  play, 

And  make  the  jug  dance  on  the  table. 
0,  success  to  the  chanter,  my  dear ! 

Your  eyes  on  each  side  you  may  cast, 

But  there  is  n't  a  house  that  is  near  you 
But  they  're  glad  to  have  Darby,  the  Blast, 

And  they  '11  tell  ye  that  't  is  he  that  can  cheer  you. 
0,  't  is  he  can  put  life  in  a  feast ! 

What  music  lies  under  his  knuckle, 
As  he  plays  "  Will  I  send  for  the  Priest]" 

Or  a  jig  they  call  "Cover  the  Buckle  ! " 

0,  good  luck  to  the  chanter,  your  sowl ! 

But  give  me  an  audience  in  rags, 

They  're  ilegant  people  for  listening ; 
'T  is  they  that  can  humor  the  bags 

As  I  rise  a  fine  tune  at  a  christening. 
There 's  many  a  wedding  I  make 

Where  they  never  get  further  nor  sighing, 
And  when  I  performed  at  a  wake, 

The  corpse  looked  delighted  at  dying. 

0,  success  to  the  chanter,  your  sowl ! 


220      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND.    * 

LARRY  McHALE. 

CHARLES  LEVER. 

0,  LARRY  McHALE  he  had  little  to  fear, 

And  never  could  want,  when  the  crops  did  n't  fail ; 

He  'd  a  house  and  demesne,  and  eight  hundred  a  year, 
And  a  heart  for  to  spend  it,  had  Larry  McHale. 

The  soul  of  a  party,  the  life  of  a  feast, 

And  an  ilegant  song  he  could  sing  I  '11  be  bail ; 

He  would  ride  with  the  rector  and  drink  with  the  priest, 
0,  the  broth  of  a  boy  was  old  Larry  McHale  ! 

It 's  little  he  cared  for  the  judge  or  recorder, 
His  house  was  as  big  and  as  strong  as  a  jail ; 

With  a  cruel  four-pounder  *  he  kept  all  in  great  order : 
He  'd  murder  the  country,  would  Larry  McHale. 

He  'd  a  blunderbuss  too,  of  horse-pistols  a  pair ; 

But  his  favorite  weapon  was  always  a  flail ; 
I  wish  you  could  see  how  he  'd  empty  a  fair, 

For  he  handled  it  nately  did  Larry  McHale. 

His  ancestors  were  kings  before  Moses  was  born, 

His  mother  descended  from  the  great  Granna  Uaile ; 

He  laughed  all  the  Blakes  and  the  Frenches  to  scorn, 
They  were  mushrooms  compared  to  old  Larry  McHale. 

*  "  The  cruel  four-pounder  "  is  not  altogether  an  exaggeration  for  a  Con- 
naught  gentleman  "on  his  keeping."  It  is  related  in  the  memoirs  of  the 
celebrated  "Fighting  Fitzgerald,"  that  he  had  on  his  estate  in  the  County 
Mayo  a  regular  fort,  defended  by  cannon  from  a  wrecked  Danish  ship,  and 
only  a  detachment  of  regular  troops  from  the  Castle  in  Dublin  compelled 
him  to  abandon  it. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.          221 

He  sat  down  every  day  to  a  beautiful  dinner, 
With  cousins  and  uncles  enough  for  a  tail ; 

And,  though  loaded  with  debt,  0,  the  devil  a  thinner 
Could  law  or  the  sheriff  make  Larry  McHale ! 

With  a  larder  supplied  and  a  cellar  well  stored, 
None  lived  half  so  well  from  Fair  Head  to  Kinsale, 

And  he  piously  said,  "  I  Ve  a  plentiful  board, 
And  the  Lord  he  is  good  to  old  Larry  McHale." 

So  fill  up  your  glass  and  a  high  bumper  give  him, 

It 's  little  we  'd  care  for  tithes  or  repale ; 
Ould  Erin  would  be  a  fine  country  to  live  in, 

If  we  only  had  plenty  like  Larry  McHale. 


KITTY   OF  COLERAINE. 

"Kitty  of  Coleraine,"  by  an  unknown  author,  was  one  of  the  most 
popular  songs  of  its  time,  and  has  perhaps  even  now  not  altogether 
passed  from  tradition. 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 

With  a  pitcher  of  milk  for  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 
When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  down  tumbled, 

And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  plain. 
"  0,  what  shall  I  do  now  !  't  was  looking  at  you  now, 

I  'm  sure  such  a  pitcher  I  '11  ne'er  see  again. 
'T  was  the  pride  of  my  dairy  ;  0  Barney  McCleary, 

You  're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine." 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her 
That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain ; 


222      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

A  kiss  then  I  gave  her,  and  before  I  did  leave  her 
She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she  'd  break  it  again. 

'T  was  haymaking  season,  I  can't  tell  the  reason, 
Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  't  is  plain, 

For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 
The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 


POH,  DERMOT!    GO  ALONG  WITH  YOUR  GOSTER. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 

This  only  attempt  by  Moore  to  deal  with  the  national  dialect  has 
been  left  out  of  his  later  and  more  fastidious  collection  of  poetry. 

POH,  Dermot !  go  along  with  your  goster. 

You  might  as  well  pray  at  a  jig, 
Or  teach  an  old  cow  Pater  Noster, 

Or  whistle  Moll  Roe  to  a  pig. 
Arrah,  child  !  do  you  think  I  'm  a  blockhead, 

And  not  the  right  son  of  my  mother, 
To  put  nothing  at  all  in  one  pocket, 

And  not  half  so  much  in  the  other  1 
Poh,  Dermot,  etc. 

Anything  else  I  can  do  for  you, 

Kead  mille  failtke*  and  welcome, 
Put  up  an  ave  or  two  for  you, 

Feared  that  you  'd  ever  to  hell  come. 
If  you  confess  you  're  a  rogue, 

I  will  turn  a  deaf  ear,  and  not  care  for  't, 

*  Kead  mille  failthe,  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         223 

Bid  you  put  peas  in  your  brogue, 

But  just  tip  you  a  hint  to  go  barefoot. 
Poh,  Dermot,  etc. 

If  you  've  the  whiskey  in  play, 

To  oblige  you  I  '11  come  take  a  smack  of  it ; 
Stay  with  you  all  night  and  day, 

Ay,  and  twenty-four  hours  to  the  back  of  it. 
0,  whiskey 's  a  Papist,  God  save  it ! 

The  beads  are  upon  it  completely ; 
But  I  think  before  ever  we  'd  leave  it, 

We  'd  make  it  a  heretic  neatly. 
Poh,  Dermot,  etc. 

If  you  are  afeared  of  a  Banshee, 

For  Leprechauns  are  not  so  civil,  dear, 
Let  Father  Luke  show  his  paunch,  he 

Will  frighten  them  all  to  the  Devil,  dear. 
It 's  I  that  pan  hunt  them  like  ferrets, 

And  lay  them  without  any  fear,  'gra ; 
But  for  whiskey  and  that  sort  of  spirits 

Why  then  —  I  would  rather  lay  them  here,  gra !  * 
Poh,  Dermot,  etc. 

*  Laying  his  hand  on  his  stomach. 


224      THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IRELAND. 

VIC   MACHREE. 
T.  HUGHES. 

The  following  song,  addressed  to  Queen  Victoria  on  her  accession, 
and  embodying  the  arguments  for  repeal,  was  witten  by  T.  Hughes, 
one  of  the  many  brilliant  journalists  that  Ireland  has  contributed  to  the 
English  press.  He  was  a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  Morning  Chronicle, 
and  for  some  years  its  Spanish  correspondent.  He  died  in  1849.  The 
song  was  a  great  favorite  in  the  Cider  Cellars  at  the  Bohemian  gather- 
ings of  the  members  of  the  press. 

0,  THE  devil  a  wink  I  slept  last  night 

For  thinking  of  the  Queen  ! 
Sure  a  purtier  by  this  blessed  light 

Was  never  seen. 
'T  was  Father  Kearney  from  Killarney 

Her  picthur  showed  to  me,  — 
My  blessin's  on  your  purty  face, 
Vic  Machree. 

Her  faytures  all  is  like  a  doll, 

So  genteel  and  so  nate, 
If  there 's  deception  in  her  at  all, 

Faith,  she 's  a  chate. 
She  has  such  schoolin'  in  her  rulin', 

She  holds  bright  larnm's  key, 
My  blessin's  on  your  purty  face 
Vic  Machree. 

There 's  Melbourne,  Peel,  and  Wellington 

Is  doin'  all  they  can ; 
But  troth  there 's  not  a  mother's  son 
She  loves  like  Dan, 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         225 

That  glory  of  the  Emerald  Gim  : 

0,  if  't  was  only  free, 
How  it  would  grace  your  diadem, 
Vic  Machree  ! 

Don't  mind  the  thievin'  Parliament, 

Whatever  they  say, 
But  the  Liberator's  speeches 

Read  at  your  tay. 
'T  is  they  will  introduce  to  you 

Our  case  without  a  fee,  — 
0,  read  them  at  your  coffee  too, 
Vic  Machree. 

'T  is  there  our  wrongs  are  tould  in  style, 

And  how  we  're  fixed 
Since  first  they  seized  on  our  own  Green  Isle 

With  Tory  thricks. 
An'  how  they  won't  concayde  our  rights, 

Tho'  Wellington  an'  we 
Like  hayroes  fought  to  guard  your  throne, 
Vic  Machree. 

Now  would  you  like  the  king  of  France 

To  ax  you  for  to  wear 
A  dingy  blanket,  while  you  dance, 

An'  you  so  fair  $ 
Or  would  you  like  the  king  of  Spain, 

Who  is,  I  hear,  a  she, 
Should  make  you  pay  her  tailor's  bills 
Vic  Machree  ] 

In  troth  you  'd  kick  up,  if  they  did, 

A  rumpus  an'  a  row, 
An'  your  army  an'  your  navy,  faith, 
Would  make  them  bow. 

15 


226       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Now  we  must  pay  the  sowls  to  save 

Of  every  Rapparee. 
0,  to  Ould  Nick  the  rint  charge  send, 
Vic  Machree ! 

There  'a  two  bad  Houses  near  your  nose, 

In  ould  Westminster ; 
0,  can't  you  then  be  done  with  those, 

My  royal  spinster  1 
We  'd  scorn  to  ax  them,  —  so  should  you ; 

Then  grant  us  for  to  see 
Our  Parliament  at  home  again, 
Vic  Machree. 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 
BY  METRODORUS  O'MAHONY. 

The  following  clever  imitation  of  the  style  of  the  hedge  schoolmaster 
and  poet  in  love  is  by  Thomas  Irwin. 

OULD  ancient  Hyems  departing 

Permits  rosy  Spring  to  draw  near ; 
Now  Favonius  wafts  through  the  azure 

The  clouds  beyand  sunny  Cape  Clear ; 
And  Love  over  boreen  and  cottage 

Has  spread  his  bright  pinions,  by  dad, 
So  that  colleens  and  puers  are  courting 

From  Gal  way  to  Ballinafad. 

Come,  Chloe,  beloved  of  my  heart-strings, 
And  seat  yourself  close  to  my  left ; 

Spes  vivat  in  moestum,  —  no  matter 
Of  what  other  joys  we  're  bereft ; 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.         227 

For  what  though  the  pig  is  n't  purchased, 

And  potato  seed 's  riz,  as  I  hear, 
Is  that  any  reason  in  logic 

Why  we  should  n't  marry,  my  dear  ? 

Naboclish  !  when  beautiful  Flora 

Produces  her  blossoms  anew, 
And  the  wide  awake  goddess  Aurora 

Palavers  the  mountains  with  dew,  — 
When  the  heathen  mythology,  Chloe, 

Drops  down  from  the  regions  above,  — 
Half  an  eye  must  be  blind  in  concluding 

If 't  is  n't  the  season  for  Love. 

Just  look  at  the  fowls  and  the  ganders, 

Just  look  at  the  birds  on  the  spray ; 
Why,  Mars  could  n't  utter  his  feelings 

In  a  manner  much  stronger  than  they ! 
All  nature  adjacent  is  courting, 

And  whispering,  and  winking,  you  rogue, 
From  the  midge  in  the  atmosphere  sporting 

To  the  ditch  that  contains  the  kerogue. 

In  the  paddock  the  ould  ass  is  sighing, 

Poor  sowl !  and  the  sheep  who  reside 
In  the  presence  of  great  Lugnaquilla* 

Are  thinking  of  nothing  beside ; 
Amor  vincit  all  things  in  creation, 

As  the  least  classic  knowledge  may  see ; 
So  come,  dear,  and  learn  education, 

Chloe,  bawn  asthore,  cushla  ma  chree. 

*  A  mountain  in  the  county  of  Wicklow. 


228      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


A   LAMENT    FOR   DONNYBROOK. 

A   LAY   OF   THE   LAST   MINSTREL   OF   THE   LIBERTY. 

THOMAS  IRWIN. 

JIMMY,  aghar,  hand  me  my  pipe, 

In  troth  I  'm  as  wearied  as  man  can  be ; 
My  eye  is  as  dim  as  the  winter  sea, 
And  my  nose  as  sharp  as  the  bill  of  a  snipe ; 
For  here  for  a  week,  a  week  and  more, 
I  have  been  laboring  body  and  sowl, 
Just  sustained  by  whiskey  and  sassages 
While  I  touched  the  finishing  passages 
Of  my  Donnybrook  rigmarole. 

Saints  be  about  us !  what  are  they  driving  at  1 

All  sorts  of  people  are  taking  their  share  — 
All  have  their  heads  together  conniving  at  — 

At  the  destruction  of  Donnybrook  Fair. 
Once  in  the  good  ould  times  of  the  city, 

M.  P.'s,  farmers,  the  rich  and  the  rare, 
Gentlemen,  nobles,  the  wise  and  the  witty, 

Went  for  a  trifle  of  element  there. 
Then  was  the  rail  indulgement  in  jollity,  — 

Devil  a  one  of  them  cared  who  was  who  ! 

All  took  their  glass  of  the  old  mountain  dew, 
And  their  hop  in  the  tent  on  the  ground  of  equality. 

But  now  it  is  over,  —  this  is  the  last  of  them,  — 
This  is  the  last  ould  fair  that  we  '11  see ; 

Now  we  must  live  as  we  can  on  the  past  of  them,  • 
Such  is  the  Corporation's  decree. 


CONVIVIAL  AND  HUMOROUS  SONGS.          229 

Ah,  never  again  in  this  isle  shall  be  seen 

The  rail  boys  up  to  the  sweet  oaken  science ! 

Trailing  their  coats  in  courageous  defiance, 
And  shouting  the  pillelu  over  the  green. 
Never  again  shall  we  see  the  shillelagh 

Joyously  splintering  forehead  and  limb, 
Or  hear  Molly  Finucane  crying,  "  Oh,  niela 

Murder !  what  have  you  done  wid  my  Jim  1 " 
Never  again  'mid  the  turmoil  or  rattle 

Shall  we  assemble  to  shoulder  the  door, 
Bearing  dear  friends,  through  the  thick  of  the  battle, 

Faithfully  home  to  their  widows,  asthore  : 
Leaving  the  pleasant  old  ground,  when  the  short  night 

Of  August  was  melting  in  matinal  dew, 

With  a  rib  or  two  dinged  or  an  eye  black  and  blue, 
Or  a  wound  that  would  lay  us  up  snug  for  a  fortnight ; 

While  a  rattle  of  sticks  in  the  distance  behind 

Made  old  Donnybrook  look  like  a  wood  in  a  wind. 
Now  all  is  over,  —  this  is  the  last  of  them,  — 

This  is  the  last  ould  fair  that  we  '11  see ; 
Now  we  must  live  as  we  can  on  the  past  of  them,  — 
Such  is  the  Corporation's  decree. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 


T ^HOMAS  MOORE,  who  holds  the  same  position  as  the 
representative  poet  of  his  country  that  Burns  does  to 
Scotland  and  Beranger  to  France,  was  born  in  Dublin,  May 
28,  1779,  and  died  at  Sloperton  Cottage,  near  Devizes,  Eng- 
land, February  25,  1852.  The  incidents  of  his  life  may  be 
briefly  stated.  He  was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
where  his  youthful  talents  in  verse  were  early  manifested. 
At  the  age  of  twenty  he  published  his  first  volume,  a  trans- 
lation of  the  Odes  of  Anacreon,  and  in  the  next  year  a  volume 
of  youthful  and  amatory  poetry  under  the  pseudonym  of 
"Thomas  Little."  In  1803  he  was  appointed,  through  the 
influence  of  Lord  Moira,  Registrar  of  the  Admiralty  at  Ber- 
muda, where  he  remained  but  a  short  time,  resigning  the 
administration  of  his  office  to  a  deputy,  by  whose  misconduct 
he  was  afterward  involved  in  serious  pecuniary  difficulties, 
which  were  honorably  met.  Returning  by  way  of  the  United 
States,  whose  then  inchoate  condition  of  society  offended  his 
tastes  and  caused  some  sharp  satires,  he  devoted  himself  to 
literature  by  profession,  and  during  a  long  and  industrious 
career  produced  some  of  the  most  popular  works  in  verse  and 
prose  of  an  era  notable  in  great  writers,  and  was  one  of  the 
best  known  of  the  group  of  men  of  literary  genius  which  has 
no  rival  in  English  history  except  that  of  the  Elizabethan  era. 
He  was  equally  prominent  in  society  as  in  literature,  a  favor- 
ite in  the  most  accomplished  coteries,  and  respected  for  his 


THOMAS  MOORE.  231 

honorable  life,  his  manly  spirit,  patriotism,  and  devoted  fam- 
ily affection,  as  well  as  admired  for  his  genius.  His  life  is  a 
part  of  the  literary  history  of  the  time,  as  well  as  of  the 
political  emancipation  of  his  country,  to  which  he  contributed 
by  the  illumination  of  his  genius,  and  his  character  as  well 
as  his  fame  is  worthy  of  the  place  which  he  holds  in  the  af- 
fections of  the  Irish  people. 

In  regard  to  that  portion  of  his  poetry  which  is  strictly 
national,  it  may  be  said  that  it  was  the  first  real  representa- 
tion of  his  country  in  English  literature.  Up  to  his  time 
almost  all  notable  Irishmen  of  genius  who  used  the  English 
language  wrote  as  though  they  considered  their  birthplace 
a  disqualification  rather  than  otherwise,  and  devoted  them- 
selves to  English  subjects  almost  exclusively.  Swift,  Burke, 
Sterne,  and  Gpldsmith  were  of  the  English  colony  in  Ireland 
rather  than  Irishmen,  and,  although  their  education  and 
lineage  showed  some  of  its  characteristics  in  the  product  of 
their  genius,  and  all  except  Sterne  exhibited  some  of  the  in- 
stincts of  patriotism  to  their  native  land,  there  was  no  flavor 
of  nationality  in  their  writings,  and  they  were  wholly  Eng- 
lish in  the  literary  sense. 

With  Moore  the  time  was  propitious  for  the  assertion  of 
nationality.  The  spirit  of  the  native  population  had  risen 
after  the  long  period  of  oppression,  as  the  intensity  of  pro- 
scription had  worn  itself  out  in  a  degree,  and  the  descend- 
ants of  the  English  colonists,  with  the  cessation  of  strife  with 
the  Celtic  inhabitants,  had  begun  to  feel  the  influence  of 
nativity,  and  to  identify  themselves  as  Irishmen.  In  his 
youth  the  national  spirit  asserted  itself  in  the  organization  of 
the  Volunteers,  and  the  struggles  for  national  independence 
headed  by  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  Wolfe  Tone,  and  other 
Protestants  and  descendants  of  the  English  colonists.  Rob- 
ert Emmet  was  his  friend  at  college,  and  he  was  once  him- 
self summoned  before  a  board  of  inquisition  headed  by  Lord 


232      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Chancellor  Clare,  when  he  was  a  student.  The  independent 
position  of  Ireland  was  asserted  by  Grattan  and  Curran, 
with  fervid  eloquence,  and  the  era  of  the  brilliant  defence 
of  the  liberties  of  the  country  against  the  Union  was  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  for  eloquence  ever  known  in  the  history 
of  Great  Britain.  The  society  in  Dublin  was  that  of  a 
national  centre  rather  than  of  a  province,  and  felt  and  ex- 
pressed a  strong  pride  in  its  nationality.  The  attention  of 
the  rest  of  Great  Britain  was  drawn  to  it,  and  there  was  a 
respect  and  interest  in  its  condition  never  manifested  before, 
partly  the  result  of  the  brilliancy  of  its  intellectual  efflores- 
cence, and  partly  of  a  feeling  of  commiseration  for  its  long 
misfortune,  and  a  sincere,  if  tardy  and  temporary  shame,  at 
the  system  of  oppression  identified  with  English  rule. 

In  1813,  when  Moore,  known  up  to  that  time  rather  as  a 
brilliant  and  witty  society  versifier  than  as  a  serious  poet, 
published  the  first  number  of  the  "  Irish  Melodies,"  they 
were  received  with  extraordinary  enthusiasm,  which  was  a 
tribute  to  the  vindication  of  nationality  which  they  con- 
tained, as  well  as  to  their  power  as  poetry,  the  graceful  lyric 
melody  of  their  versification,  and  the  brilliancy  of  their  fancy. 
They  were  joined  to  the  beautiful  national  airs  of  Ireland, 
which,  although  their  strength  and  purity  were  not  entirely 
preserved  in  the  settings  of  Sir  John  Stevenson,  had  never 
been  introduced  to  the  world  before  in  attractive  shape,  and 
had  a  power  in  their  exquisite  sweetness,  pathos,  and  origi- 
nality to  take  captive  its  ear.  The  songs  expressed  as  had 
never  before  been  done  in  the  English  language  an  Irish  and 
national  feeling  and  patriotism,  celebrated  the  beauties  of 
Irish  scenery,  and  paid  tribute  in  a  distinct  manner,  although 
names  were  not  mentioned,  to  patriots  like  Emmet,  who  had 
suffered  for  treason  according  to  the  English  law.  Its  his- 
tory was  illuminated  and  its  beautiful  legends  presented  in 
the  most  attractive  form.  The  "  Melodies  "  were  a  revelation 


THOMAS  MOORE.  233 

to  English  readers  of  the  wealth  of  beauty  and  interest  in  a 
country  they  had  so  long  despised,  and  a  glorious  awakening 
of  self-respect  and  national  pride  to  a  people  long  oppressed, 
and  compelled  to  cherish  their  national  feelings  in  secret,  and 
celebrate  their  glories  in  an  unknown  tongue.  The  magni- 
tude arid  effect  of  that  work  are  not  fully  realized  in  the 
merely  literary  estimate  of  the  "  Melodies  "  in  modern  times, 
but  it  would  have  itself  entitled  Moore  to  the  place  of  the 
representative  poet  of  Ireland,  even  if  it  had  not  been  main- 
tained by  the  force  of  his  yet  unrivalled  fame. 


0,  BREATHE   NOT   HIS   NAME. 

AIR.  —  The  Brown  Maid. 

0,  BREATHE  not  his  name  !  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid ; 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night  dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head ! 

But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps ; 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls.* 

*  This  song  relates  to  the  unfortunate  Robert  Emmet. 


234      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

WHEN    HE    WHO    ADORES    THEE. 

AIR.  —  The  Fox's  Sleep. 

WHEN  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
0,  say,  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resigned  ? 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

My  tears  shall  efface  their  decree ; 
For  heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love,  — 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine ; 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine. 
0,  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends,  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ! 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH  TARA'S  HALLS. 

AIR.  —  Grammachree. 

THE  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  had  fled. 


THOMAS  MOORE.  235 

So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er, 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells ; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 


THE    MEETING   OF    THE   WATERS. 

AIR.  —  The  Old  Head  of  Denis. 

THERE  's  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 

As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet.* 

0,  the  last  ray  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 

Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green,  — 
'T  was  not  the  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill,  — 
0,  no,  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still ! 

'T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  nature  improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

*  The  streams  Avon  and  Avoca,  in  the  County  "Wicklow. 


236       THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca  !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade,  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts  like  thy  waters  be  mingled  in  peace ! 


SHE  IS  FAR  FROM  THE  LAND. 

AIR  —  Open  the  Door. 

SHE  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking. 
Ah,  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking ! 

He  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died,  — 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

0,  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 
They  '11  shine  o'er  her  sleep  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow !  * 

*  This  relates  to  Sarah  Curran,  daughter  of  John  Philpot  Curran,  and  the 
betrothed  of  Robert  Emmet,  who  died  of  a  broken  heart,  in  Italy. 


THOMAS  MOORE.  237 

'TIS    THE    LAST    ROSE    OF    SUMMER. 

AIR.  —  The  Groves  of  Blarney. 

'T  is  the  last  rose  of  summer, 

Left  blooming  alone ; 
All  her  lovely  companions 

Are  faded  and  gone. 
No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 
To  reflect  back  her  blushes 

Or  give  sigh  for  sigh. 

I  '11  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 
Since  thy  loved  ones  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 
Thus  kindly  I  scatter 

Thy  leaves  o'er  the  bed, 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 

Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I  follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 
And  from  Love's  shining  circle 

The  gems  drop  away ; 
When  true  hearts  lie  withered 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 
0,  who  would  inhabit 

This  bleak  world  alone  1 


238      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

THE   MINSTREL    BOY. 

Am.  —  The  Moreen. 

THE  minstrel  boy  to  the  war  has  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you  '11  find  him; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"  Land  of 'song,"  cried  the  warrior  bard, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee." 

The  minstrel  fell !  —  but  the  foeman's  chain 

Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under  ! 
The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 

For  he  tore  its  chords  asunder, 
And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery ! 
Thy  songs  were  meant  for  the  brave  and  free, 

And  never  shall  sound  in  slavery." 


DEAR   HARP   OF   MY   COUNTRY. 

AIK.  —  New  Langolee. 

DEAR  Harp  of  my  Country  !  in  darkness  I  found  thee, 
The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long, 

When  proudly,  my  own  Island  Harp  !  I  unbound  thee, 
And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom,  and  song ! 


THOMAS  MOORE.  239 

The  warm  lay  of  love  and  the  light  note  of  gladness 
Have  wakened  thy  fondest,  thy  loveliest  thrill ; 

But  so  oft  hast  thou  echoed  the  deep  sigh  of  sadness, 
That  even  in  thy  mirth  it  will  steal  from  thee  still. 

Dear  Harp  of  my  Country !  farewell  to  thy  numbers, 

This  sweet  wreath  of  song  is  the  last  we  shall  twine ! 
Go,  sleep,  with  the  sunshine  of  Fame  on  thy  slumbers, 

Till  touched  by  some  hand  less  unworthy  than  mine. 
If  the  pulse  of  the  patriot,  soldier,  or  lover 

Have  throbbed  at  our  lay,  't  is  thy  glory  alone ; 
I  was  but  as  the  wind  passing  heedlessly  over, 

And  all  the  wild  sweetness  I  waked  was  thine  own. 


CHARLES  WOLFE. 

THE  contribution  of  Charles  Wolfe  to  literature  was  very 
small  in  bulk,  but  it  contains  an  ode  which  is  a  house- 
hold poem  in  the  English  language,  and  is  one  of  those 
which,  by  their  peculiar  felicity  of  rhythm,  and  vigor  and 
clearness  of  expression,  and  in  fact  by  an  almost  indefinable 
living  quality,  have  taken  possession  of  the  popular  ear. 
The  ode  on  the  burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  has  become,  like 
Cowper's  poem  "  On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George,"  Camp- 
bell's "  Hohenlinden,"  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's  "  The  Forging 
of  the  Anchor,"  and  perhaps  three  or  four  others,  a  part  of 
the  familiar  poetical  possession  of  the  people  by  its  happy 
combination  of  taking  rhythm  with  simple  strength  of  senti- 
ment and  vividness  of  expression,  and  is  an  assurance  of 
immortality  much  more  secure  than  a  poetical  product 
greater  in  bulk  and  high  average  excellence.  The  incident 
of  Lord  Byron's  selecting  it  as  the  most  perfect  ode  of  the 
day,  in  a  discussion  with  Shelley  on  the  merits  of  contempo- 
raneous poets,  in  preference  to  Coleridge's  "  Ode  to  France  " 
and  Campbell's  "  Hohenlinden,"  and  his  sound  criticism  on 
its  vigor  and  freedom  from  over-polish,  are  well  known,  and 
its  prompt  recognition  from  the  columns  of  an  Irish  news- 
paper, in  which  it  was  first  published  anonymously,  was 
creditable  to  the  critical  taste  of  the  time,  although  a  friend 
of  the  author's  relates  that  it  was  rejected  by  the  reading 
coterie  of  a  distinguished  literary  periodical  as  "  stuff."  The 


CHARLES  WOLFE.  241 

general  impression  is,  that  the  ode  on  the  burial  of  Sir  John 
Moore  was  a  happy  inspiration,  which  the  author  never 
approached  before  nor  afterward,  and  the  fact  that  his  name 
was  Charles  Wolfe,  and  that  he  was  a  clergyman  of  the 
Established  Church  in  Ireland,  is  about  all  that  is  known 
concerning  him.  It  was  not,  however,  the  first  and  solitary 
poem  of  the  author,  nor  so  extraordinarily  the  best  as  to 
have  the  others  left  out  of  account ;  and  although  his  verses 
were  very  few,  they  have  a  sweetness  and  a  polish  that  show 
worthy  labor  in  the  art,  and  made  them  fit  precursors  of  the 
noble  ode.  An  earnest  zeal  in  religious  avocations,  sur- 
roundings uncongenial  to  literary  pursuits,  and  an  early 
death,  prevented  Wolfe  from  giving  his  genius  full  play,  and 
confined  his  productions  to  the  occasional  stimulus  of  strong 
inspiration,  rather  than  to  the  deliberate  cultivation  of  his 
literary  faculties;  but  his  verses  were  thoroughly  labored, 
and  not  mere  fortunate  accidents  of  improvisation. 

Charles  Wolfe  was  born  in  Dublin,  December  16,  1771. 
He  was  the  youngest  son  of  Theobald  Wolfe  of  the  County 
Kildare,  a  descendant  of  the  family  of  the  famous  General 
Wolfe,  and  he  was  a  relative  of  Arthur  Wolfe,  Lord  Kil- 
warden,  the  judge  murdered  in  the  street  during  Emmet's 
insurrection,  and  Theobald  Wolfe  Tone,  the  brightest  and 
most  engaging  of  the  Irish  patriots  of  the  time.  He  was 
educated  in  the  English  schools  at  Bath  and  Winchester,  and 
entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  1809.  There  he  was 
distinguished  for  his  ability  and  scholarship,  and  he  composed 
a  Latin  poem  on  "  Jugurtha"  in  his  eighteenth  year,  which 
displays  traits  of  the  dramatic  power  and  finish  which  marked 
his  later  ode.  He  was  highly  sensitive  to  heroic  exploits, 
and  to  all  the  influences  of  poetry  and  music.  In  1817  he 
was  ordained  to  the  curacy  of  Donoughmore,  in  the  diocese 
of  Armagh,  where,  in  a  wild  and  desolate  parish,  among  a 
poor  and  rude  people,  he  devoted  himself  to  active  charity 

16 


242       THE  POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

and  the  cure  of  souls,  with  a  zeal  which  left  little  leisure  for 
literary  pursuits,  and  which  was  fatal  to  his  health.  He 
lived  in  a  damp  and  uncomfortable  house  little  better  than  a 
cabin,  with  an  ex-soldier  and  a  large  family  for  housekeepers, 
without  seclusion,  and  with  few  of  the  conveniences  or  com- 
forts of  life.  Under  these  circumstances,  however,  his  literary 
instincts  were  not  entirely  destroyed,  and  he  composed  ser- 
mons for  delivery  to  his  uneducated  congregation  from  which 
extracts  were  afterwards  used  by  Archbishop  Whately,  in 
his  treatise  on  elocution,  as  specimens  of  the  finest  pulpit 
oratory.  It  was  here,  deeply  moved  by  the  account  of  the 
death  and  burial  of  Sir  John  Moore  at  Corunna,  he  wrote 
the  ode  which  is  almost  an  exact  transcript  of  the  incidents 
of  the  official  account. 

His  health  gave  way  from  the  conditions  of  his  life.  Con- 
sumption set  in,  and  he  was  obliged  to  abandon  his  pulpit. 
He  died  at  the  Cove  of  Cork,  whose  climate  he  had  sought  for 
relief,  in  1823,  and  lies  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  Clon- 
mell  parish,  County  Cork,  not  the  town  of  Clonmell  in  the 
County  Tipperary,  as  is  commonly  supposed.  The  church- 
yard is  a  desolate  and  abandoned  one,  and  his  grave  is  en- 
tirely neglected.  Just  before  his  death  he  began  to  pray  for 
his  friends ;  but,  his  voice  failing,  he  whispered,  "  God  bless 
them  all ! "  and  then  said  to  his  sister,  "  Close  this  eye,  the 
other  is  closed  already,  —  and  now,  farewell."  His  piety  was 
fervid  and  poetic,  and  his  devotion  to  his  people  was  some- 
times eccentric  in  its  simplicity  and  single-mindedness,  but 
he  was  thoroughly  lovable,  pure  and  sensitive,  and  attracted 
the  deepest  affection  of  his  friends.  In  personal  appearance 
he  was  somewhat  above  the  middle  height,  but  slight,  with 
fair  complexion,  dark  blue  eyes,  and  curly  auburn  hair. 
After  his  death  his  literary  remains,  including  specimens 
of  his  sermons  and  fragments  of  pure  tales  and  rhapsodies, 
were  published  with  a  memoir  by  one  of  his  college  friends, 
Archdeacon  Russell. 


CHARLES  WOLFE.  243 


THE   BURIAL    OF    SIR   JOHN    MOORE. 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning,  — 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  little  he  '11  reck,  if  they  '11  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


244   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


0,   SAY  NOT  THAT  MY  HEART  IS  COLD. 

0,  SAY  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 

To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it,  — 
That  Nature's  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 
Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 

One  glow  of  fond  emotion 
For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I  view, 

In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness,  — 
Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too 

With  Fancy's  idle  gladness. 
Again  I  longed  to  view  the  light 

In  Nature's  features  glowing, 
Again  to  tread  the  mountain's  height, 

And  taste  the  soul's  o'erflowing. 

'     Stern  duty  rose,  and  frowning  flung 
His  leaden  chain  around  me  ; 


CHARLES  WOLFE.  245 

With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 

He  muttered  as  he  bound  me  : 
"The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless  heaven, 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature ; 
These  for  the  free  alone  are  given ; 

And  what  have  slaves  with  Nature  ? " 


IF  I  HAD  THOUGHT  THOU  COULDST  HAVE  DIED. 

This  song  is  adapted  to  the  pathetic  Irish  air  of  Grammachree,  and  in 
his  account  of  its  composition  Wolfe  said  that  on  one  occasion  "I  sung 
the  air  over  and  over  until  I  burst  into  a  flood  of  salt  tears,  in  which 
mood  I  composed  the  song  "  ;  but  it  is  also  known  that  he  was  engaged 
to  Mary  Grierson,  a  beautiful  girl  of  Dublin,  who  died  young,  to  whose 
name  the  exquisite  elegy  would  apply. 

IF  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  ; 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  passed 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more. 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  't  will  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook 

That  I  must  look  in  vain  ; 
But  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid, 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary  !  thou  art  dead. 


246      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

If  thou  wouldst  stay  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been. 
While  e'en  thy  chill  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own ; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave, 

And  I  am  now  alone  ! 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
And  I  perhaps  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking,  too,  of  thee. 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore. 


JEREMIAH  JOSEPH   CALLANAN. 


TEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN,  who  was  the  first  to 
^J  translate  ancient  Irish  poetry  with  real  spirit  and  faith- 
fulness to  the  idiom,  and  whose  original  poems  entitle  him 
to  be  mentioned  among  the  poets  of  Ireland,  was  born  in 
Cork,  in  1795,  of  humble  parentage,  his  father  being  servant 
to  a  physician.  He  was  sent  to  Maynooth  College  to  be  edu- 
cated for  the  priesthood,  but  abandoned  it  after  two  years' 
stay,  and  betook  himself  to  Dublin  with  the  idea  of  a  career 
in  literature.  He  became  a  tutor  for  the  purpose  of  main- 
taining himself  while  he  studied  in  Trinity  College,  where  he 
obtained  credit  for  two  prize  poems.  Being  reduced  to  pov- 
erty through  shiftlessness,  he  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the 
Royal  Irish  regiment,  from  which  he  was  discharged,  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  after  a  brief  term  of  service,  by  the  interven- 
tion of  his  friends.  He  obtained  a  tutorship  in  a  family 
living  in  the  western  part  of  the  County  Cork,  and  while 
there  wrote  his  local  poems,  inspired  by  the  beautiful  scenery 
of  Lake  Killarney,  the  Muskerry  mountains,  and  the  sources 
of  the  Lee.  "With  a  number  of  these  he  returned  to  Cork, 
with  the  idea  of  publishing  them  by  subscription,  but  aban- 
doned his  purpose,  ostensibly  because  it  was  not  a  dignified 
method,  and  probably  also  from  want  of  energy  and  per- 
severance. He  became  an  assistant  in  the  school  of  Dr. 
Maginn,  who  introduced  him  to  Black  wood's  Magazine,  in 
which  some  of  his  poems  and  translations  from  the  Irish 


248       THE  POETS  AND  POETEY   OF  IRELAND. 

appeared.  He  again  returned  to  the  scenery  which  exer- 
cised so  strong  a  fascination  over  him,  where  he  lived  as 
long  as  possible  without  occupation,  in  dreaming  a  great 
deal  and  writing  a  little,  and  the  remainder  of  his  existence 
was  spent  in  alternate  teaching  in  schools  and  private  fami- 
lies, in  sojourning  with  friends  in  the  unwholesome  position 
of  a  patronized  genius,  writing  poetry,  and  making  feeble 
attempts  to  publish  a  volume.  He  finally,  as  his  health 
failed,  accepted  a  tutorship  in  a  private  family  living  in 
Portugal,  and  died  of  consumption  in  Lisbon,  in  1829,  in  the 
thirty-fourth  year  of  his  age. 

After  his  death  a  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  in 
Cork,  with  a  brief  memoir.  He  had  acquired,  in  a  desul- 
tory fashion,  a  varied  education,  including  not  only  the  clas- 
sics, but  French,  Spanish,  Italian,  and  Portuguese  literature, 
and  he  had  the  taste  to  appreciate  and  search  for  the  relics 
of  Irish  literature,  some  of  which  he  was  the  means  of  secur- 
ing and  preserving.  His  translations  from  the  Irish  are,  in 
one  or  two  instances,  among  the  best  and  most  spirited 
we  have.  His  life  was  blameless,  except  for  an  indolence 
and  fatal  lack  of  energy,  which  made  it  melancholy  to  him- 
self and  disappointing  to  his  friends.  His  longest  poem, 
"The  Recluse  of  Inchidony,"  is  in  the  Spenserian  stanza, 
and  has  some  traces  of  beauty,  but  is  too  diffuse  in  language 
and  weak  in  purpose  for  any  sustained  interest.  He  deeply 
felt  the  beauties  of  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the  western 
part  of  the  county  of  Cork,  which  was  his  favorite  locality, 
and  the  best  of  his  original  poems  are  those  which  relate  to 
it.  His  translations  are,  however,  his  most  valuable  contri- 
butions to  Irish  literature. 


JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN.  249 


GOUGANE  BARRA. 

Gougane  Barra  is  a  small  lake  in  the  mountains  that  divide  the 
counties  of  Cork  and  Kerry,  and  is  the  source  of  the  river  Lee.  In  its 
centre  there  is  an  island  of  a  few  acres,  containing  some  luxuriant  ash- 
trees  and  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  castle  or  church.  The  lake  is  remote 
and  difficult  of  access,  and  surrounded  on  all  sides  but  one  by  precipi- 
tous mountains.  It  is  credited  with  having  been  the  hermitage  of  St. 
Finbar,  who  afterward  founded  the  cathedral  church  of  Cork,  about 
the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  and  to  have  been  the  refuge  of  one  of  the 
last  of  the  ancient  bards. 

THERE  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougane  Barra, 
Whence  Allu  of  songs  rushes  forth  like  an  arrow  ; 
In  deep-valleyed  Desmond  a  thousand  wild  fountains 
Come  down  to  that  lake  from  their  home  in  the  mountains. 
There  grows  the  wild  ash ;  and  a  time-stricken  willow 
Looks  chidingly  down  on  the  mirth  of  the  billow, 
As,  like  some  gay  child  that  sad  monitor  scorning, 
It  lightly  laughs  back  to  the  laugh  of  the  morning. 

And  its  zone  of  dark  hills,  —  0,  to  see  them  all  brightening, 
When  the  tempest  flings  out  his  red  banner  of  lightning, 
And  the  waters  come  down,  'mid  the  thunder's  deep  rattle, 
Like  clans  from  their  hills  at  the  voice  of  the  battle ; 
And  brightly  the  fire-crested  billows  are  gleaming, 
And  wildly  from  Malloc  the  eagles  are  screaming !  — 
0,  where  is  the  dwelling,  in  valley  or  highland, 
So  meet  for  a  bard  as  that  lone  little  island  1 

How  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  rested  on  Clara, 

And  lit  the  blue  headland  of  sullen  Ivara, 

Have  I  sought  thee,  sweet  spot,  from  my  home  by  the  ocean, 

And  trod  all  thy  wilds  with  a  minstrel's  devotion, 


250      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

And  thought  on  the  bards,  who,  oft  gathering  together, 
In  the  cleft  of  thy  rocks  and  the  depth  of  thy  heather, 
Dwelt  far  from  the  Saxon's  dark  bondage  and  slaughter, 
As  they  raised  their  last  song  by  the  rush  of  thy  water. 

High  sons  of  the  lyre  !  0,  how  proud  was  the  feeling, 
To  dream  while  alone  through  that  solitude  stealing, 
Though  loftier  minstrels  green  Erin  can  number, 
I  alone  waked  the  strain  of  her  harp  from  its  slumber, 
And  gleaned  the  gray  legend  that  long  had  been  sleeping, 
Where  oblivion's  dull  mist  o'er  its  beauty  was  creeping, 
From  the  love  which  I  felt  for  my  country's  sad  story, 
When  to  love  her  was  shame,  revile  her  was  glory. 

Last  bard  of  the  free  !  were  it  mine  to  inherit 

The  fire  of  thy  harp  and  the  wing  of  thy  spirit, 

With  the  wrongs  which  like  thee  to  my  own   land   have 

bound  me, 

Did  your  mantle  of  song  throw  its  radiance  around  me, 
Yet,  yet  on  those  bold  cliffs  might  Liberty  rally, 
And  abroad  send  her  cry  o'er  the  sleep  of  each  valley. 
But  rouse  thee,  vain  dreamer !  no  fond  fancy  cherish, 
Thy  vision  of  Freedom  in  bloodshed  must  perish. 

I  soon  shall  be  gone,  though  my  name  may  be  spoken 
When  Erin  awakes,  and  her  fetters  are  broken. 
Some  minstrel  will  come,  in  the  summer  eve's  gleaming, 
When  Freedom's  young  light  on  his  spirit  is  beaming, 
To  bend  o'er  my  grave  with  a  tear  of  emotion, 
Where  calm  Avonbuee  seeks  the  kisses  of  ocean, 
And  a  wild  wreath  to  plant  from  the  banks  of  that  river 
O'er  the  heart  and  the  harp  that  are  silent  forever. 


JEKEMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN.  251 


THE    NIGHT    WAS    STILL. 

THE  night  was  still,  the  air  was  balm, 

Soft  dews  around  were  weeping ; 
No  whisper  rose  o'er  ocean's  calm, 

Its  waves  in  light  were  sleeping ; 
With  Mary  on  the  beach  I  strayed, 

The  stars  beamed  joys  above  me ; 
I  pressed  her  hand  and  said,  "  Sweet  maid, 

0,  tell  me,  do  you  love  me  1 " 

With  modest  air  she  drooped  her  head, 

Her  cheek  of  beauty  veiling ; 
Her  bosom  heaved,  —  no  word  she  said ; 

I  marked  her  strife  of  feeling. 
"  0,  speak  my  doom,  dear  maid,"  I  cried, 

"  By  you  bright  heaven  above  thee  ! " 
She  gently  raised  her  eyes,  and  sighed, 

"  Too  well  you  know  I  love  thee." 


DIRGE    OF   O'SULLIVAN    BEARE. 

Morty  Oge  O'Sullivan,  O'Sullivan  Beare,  was  a  descendant  of  one  of 
the  noblest  Irish  families,  and,  after  service  in  the  Austrian  army,  re- 
turned to  Ireland  about  1750,  and  settled  near  Bearhaven,  where  he 
fortified  his  house,  maintained  a  smuggling  brigantine,  and  was  very 
active  in  recruiting  and  transporting  the  "  "Wild  Geese,"  as  the  recruits 
for  the  French  army  were  called.  He  was  harassed  by  the  exertions  of 
a  Mr.  Puxley,  the  revenue  officer  of  the  district,  and  waylaid  and  killed 
him.  A  detachment  of  troops  was  sent  from  Cork,  which  finally  cap- 
tured him  in  his  house,  after  a  desperate  resistance.  Humor  has  charged 
a  servant  named  Scully  with  having  been  bribed  to  wet  the  priming  in 


252   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

the  guns,  but  it  is  not  credited  in  Fronde's  graphic  account  of  the  affair, 
in  "The  English  in  Ireland."  The  Dirge  purports  to  have  been  written 
by  the  nurse  of  O'Sullivan. 

THE  sun  on  Ivera 

No  longer  shines  brightly ; 
The  voice  of  her  music 

No  longer  is  sprightly. 
No  more  to  her  maidens 

The  light  dance  is  dear, 
Since  the  death  of  our  darling, 

O'Sullivan  Beare. 

Scully,  thou  false  one  ! 

You  basely  betrayed  him, 
In  the  strong  hour  of  his  need, 

When  thy  right  hand  should  aid  him. 
He  fed  thee  —  he  clad  thee  — 

You  had  all  could  delight  thee ; 
You  left  him  —  you  sold  him  — 

May  Heaven  requite  thee  ! 

Scully,  may  all  kinds 

Of  evil  attend  thee  ! 
On  thy  dark  road  of  life 

May  no  kind  one  befriend  thee ! 
May  fevers  long  burn  thee, 

And  agues  long  freeze  thee  ! 
May  the  strong  hand  of  God 

In  his  red  anger  seize  thee  ! 

Had  he  died  calmly, 

I  would  not  deplore  him, 
Or  if  the  wild  strife 

Of  the  sea  war  closed  o'er  him. 


JEREMIAH  JOSEPH  CALLANAN.  253 

But  with  ropes  round  his  white  limbs 

Through  ocean  to  trail  him,* 
Like  fish  after  slaughter, 

7T  is  therefore  I  wail  him. 

Long  may  the  curse 

Of  his  people  pursue  them  ! 
Scully,  that  sold  him, 

And  soldier  that  slew  him  ! 
One  glimpse  of  heaven's  light 

May  they  see  never  ! 
May  the  hearthstone  of  hell 

Be  their  best  bed  forever ! 

In  the  hole  which  the  vile  hands 

Of  soldiers  had  made  thee, 
Unhonored,  unshrouded, 

And  headless  they  laid  thee, 
No  sigh  to  regret  thee, 

No  eye  to  rain  o'er  thee, 
No  dirge  to  lament  thee, 

No  friend  to  implore  thee. 

Dear  head  of  my  darling, 

How  gory  and  pale 
These  aged  eyes  see  thee 

High  spiked  on  the  jail !  * 
That  cheek  in  the  summer  sun 

Ne'er  shall  grow  warm, 
Nor  that  eye  e'er  catch  light 

By  the  flash  of  the  storm. 

*  The  body  of  Sullivan,  after  his  death,  was  towed  "behind  a  vessel  to 
Cork,  and  the  head  there  exposed  on  spikes  above  the  jail. 


254   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

A  curse,  blessed  ocean, 

Is  on  thy  green  water, 
From  the  haven  of  Cork 

To  Ivera  of  slaughter ; 
Since  thy  billows  were  dyed 

With  the  red  wounds  of  fear 
Of  Muiertach  Oge, 

Our  O'Sullivan  Beare. 


JOHN  BANIM. 

JOHN  BANIM  is  more  widely  known  as  an  Irish  novelist 
than  as  a  poet,  but  wrote  two  or  three  poems  of  the 
highest  force  and  vigor,  and  intensely  national  spirit.  His 
life  and  character  are  deeply  interesting.  He  was  born  in 
Kilkenny,  in  1798,  and  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  trades- 
man. He  was  of  deeply  sensitive  nature,  and  manifested  in 
boyhood  a  taste  for  art  and  literature.  He  adopted  art  as  a 
profession,  and  after  a  brief  apprenticeship  in  Dublin  set 
himself  up  as  a  miniature-painter  in  Kilkenny.  In  his 
eighteenth  year  he  fell  deeply  in  love  with  a  beautiful  young 
girl,  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  a  gentleman.  His  proposal 
of  marriage  was  coarsely  rejected  by  the  father,  and  she  was 
removed  to  a  place  in  the  country,  where  she  rapidly  with- 
ered and  died  of  consumption.  When  Banim  received  the 
news  of  her  death,  he  walked  twenty-five  miles  in  pouring 
rain  to  the  house  where  her  body  was  lying.  When  he 
approached  the  coffin  he  was  greeted  with  Irish  vehemence 
by  his  betrothed's  sister  and  accused  of  being  her  "Anne's 
murderer."  His  sensitive  spirit  received  the  blow  keenly, 
and  he  reproached  himself  with  the  thought  that,  if  he  had 
not  pursued  her  with  his  affection,  she  would  have  remained 
alive.  He  wandered  forth  in  a  distracted  condition,  and  was 
found  by  his  brother  the  next  morning  in  the  road,  about  ten 
miles  from  Kilkenn}',  partially  smitten  with  paralysis,  and 
wandering  in  his  mind.  The  subsequent  illness  confined  him 


256      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

to  his  bed  for  a  twelvemonth,  and  the  exposure  and  shock 
were  the  foundation  of  the  spinal  disease  which  afterward 
made  him  a  martyr. 

On  the  recovery  of  his  health  he  resumed  his  profession, 
and  afterward  established  himself  in  Dublin,  where  he  com- 
menced his  literary  career  by  the  composition  of  an  epic  poem 
on  the  Irish  Ossian.  Attracted,  like  so  many  other  bright 
Irish  youth,  by  the  wider  field  of  London,  he  betook  himself 
to  the  metropolis,  and  engaged  in  journalism  and  miscellane- 
ous writing  for  the  magazines  and  newspapers.  He  wrote  a 
drama,  "  Damon  and  Pythias,"  which,  by  the  influence  of 
Richard  Lalor  Sheil,  then  a  literary  adventurer  like  himself, 
whose  tragedies  of  "  Evadne  "  and  "  The  Apostate  "  had  been 
highly  successful  in  furnishing  heroines  adapted  to  the  style 
of  the  famous  actress,  Miss  O'Neill,  was  accepted  by  a  mana- 
ger. "  Damon  and  Pythias  "  was  produced  at  Covent  Gar- 
den when  Banim  was  in  his  twenty-fourth  year,  with  Macready 
and  Charles  Kemble  in  the  principal  parts,  and  was  trium- 
phantly successful.  It  still  keeps  the  boards  to  a  limited  ex- 
tent, and  was  a  favorite  with  melodramatic  actors  like  Edwin 
Forrest.  It  is  of  a  vigorous  and  robustious  order,  and  has  too 
much  of  the  elaborate  and  artificial  style  of  Sheil,  with  the 
usual  faults  of  youth,  but  is  not  without  strength  and  pathos. 
With  its  success  and  flattering  prospects  of  well-rewarded 
literary  labor,  Banim  returned  to  Kilkenny,  and  married 
Miss  Ellen  Ruth,  who  had  succeeded  to  the  place, of  his  first 
love  in  his  heart,  and  to  whom  on  his  departure  for  London  he 
addressed  the  beautiful  and  touching  poem  of  "  Ailleen." 

Almost  from  his  marriage  Banim's  misfortunes  began.  His 
wife's  health  failed,  and  he  was  attacked  by  the  spinal  disease 
which  not  only  caused  him  paroxysms  of  pain,  but  by  the 
orders  of  his  physician  compelled  him  to  intermit  his  work. 
He  could  not  abandon  it  altogether,  and  he  struggled  on, 
writing  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  and  sometimes  re- 


JOHN  BANIM.  257 

duced  to  very  low  straits,  but  never  losing  heart  or  hope, 
and  finding  time  to  bestow  kindness  and  encouragement  on 
Gerald  Griffin,  then  also  a  literary  adventurer  in  London, 
and  despairing  from  poverty  and  want  of  appreciation.  In 
1824,  he  projected  a  series  of  Irish  novels,  to  be  written  by 
himself  and  his  brother,  Michael  Banim,  who  had  remained 
at  home  in  charge  of  his  father's  shop,  and  whom  by  affec- 
tionate encouragement  he  persuaded  to  develop  his  literary 
talent.  The  series,  which  was  begun  by  "  Crohoore  of  the 
Bill  Hook,"  by  Michael,  and  "  The  Nowlans,"  by  John,  were 
recognized  at  once  as  powerful  and  idiomatic  pictures  of  Irish 
life;  and  although  sometimes  overstrained  and  melodra- 
matic in  their  incidents,  and  too  obviously  copied  in  some  of 
the  characters  from  originals  whose  peculiarities  were  repro- 
duced with  too  great  minuteness,  they  have  a  power  both  in 
passionate  and  descriptive  passages  which  has  never  been 
rivalled  by  any  other  Irish  novelist.  The  "Tales  by  the 
O'Hara  Family,"  as  they  were  called,  were  the  first  to  de- 
scribe the  peasant  life  in  Ireland,  and  to  express  the  religious 
and  political  sentiments  of  the  people.  Their  spirit  was  dark 
and  gloomy,  except  where  revelling  in  minute  reproductions 
of  home  scenes  of  national  life,  and  they  fully  represented 
the  indignant  spirit  of  an  oppressed  and  proscribed  people. 
The  styles  of  the  two  brothers  were  singularly  alike,  which 
is  perhaps  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  they  con- 
sulted together  about  the  incidents  and  language,  and  re- 
vised the  manuscripts  of  each  other's  works.  The  novels  of 
Michael  Banim,  wholly  unapprenticed  in  literature  and  writ- 
ten in  the  evenings  after  days  spent  in  the  shop,  were  quite 
as  powerful  and  polished  as  those  of  John,  and  the  same 
faults  were  common  to  both.  The  utmost  affection  existed 
between  Banim  and  his  family,  and,  as  a  touching  example, 
on  New  Year's  eve  the  family  in  Kilkenny  always  pledged  a 
toast  to  the  health  and  prosperity  of  "  Poor  John  and  Ellen, 

17 


258      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

far  away,"  which  was  responded  to  at  the  same  moment,  cal- 
culated in  the  difference  of  time,  by  a  wish  in  London  for  the 
happiness  of  those  at  home. 

The  ill  health  of  both  Banim  and  his  wife  continued,  and 
they  took  up  their  residence  in  Boulogne.  Finally  his  lower 
limbs  entirely  refused  their  office,  and,  after  several  agonizing 
surgical  operations,  Banim  was  obliged  to  give  up  the  strug- 
gle and  return  to  the  shelter  of  his  brother's  roof  in  Kilkenny. 
The  Irish  people  responded  liberally  on  the  knowledge  of 
his  helpless  condition.  A  public  meeting  was  called  in  his 
behalf  in  Dublin,  at  which  Sheil,  then  at  the  height  of 
his  political  influence  as  an  agitator,  spoke  eloquently  of 
his  claims.  Benefit  performances  of  "  Damon  and  Pythias  " 
were  given  for  him,  and  on  his  arrival  in  Kilkenny  his  fellow- 
citizens  presented  him  with  a  testimonial.  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
whose  name  is  associated  with  so  much  benevolence  to  liter- 
ary men,  sent  him  a  donation  of  a  hundred  pounds,  and  a 
pension  of  one  hundred  pounds  a  year  was  procured  for  him, 
to  which  forty  pounds  a  year  was  afterward  added  for  the 
benefit  of  his  daughter,  an  only  child.  He  never  recovered 
his  health,  but  preserved  his  kindly  good  spirits  and  his 
political  interest  in  his  countrymen,  appearing  at  an  ovation 
to  Lord  Mulgrave,  the  liberal  Lord  Lieutenant,  with  his 
"  Shanderadan,"  as  he  called  the  invalid  carriage  in  which 
he  was  wheeled  about,  decorated  with  a  placard,  "Mulgrave 
Forever."  Before  his  death  he  wrote  the  last  novel  of  the 
Tales  by  the  O'Hara  Family,  —  "  Father  Connell,"  a  charm- 
ing and  minute  portraiture  of  a  benevolent  parish  priest. 
He  died  in  August,  1842.  His  brother  Michael  long  sur- 
vived, and  lived,  honored  and  respected,  as  a  worthy  and 
benevolent  citizen  of  Kilkenny,  until  1876.  Banim's  char- 
acter was  delightfully  sincere,  manly,  and  generous,  and  he 
was  one  of  the  worthiest  as  well  as  most  unfortunate  men 
of  letters. 


JOHN  BANIM.  259 

His  poems  were  few  in  number,  and  were  confined  to  a 
small  volume  entitled,  "  The  Chant  of  the  Cholera :  Songs 
for  the  Irish  People,"  —  published  while  he  was  at  Boulogne. 
The  Chant  of  the  Cholera  is  a  vivid  and  ghastly  piece  of 
verse,  impressive  through  its  very  rudeness;  but  the  gems 
of  the  volume  are  "  Soggarth  Aroon,"  —  Priest  Dear,  —  an 
address  of  the  peasant  to  his  priest ;  and  the  tender  poem 
of  "  Ailleen,"  addressed  to  his  wife.  "  Soggarth  Aroon  "  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  Lord  Jeffrey,  as  it  was  republished 
in  the  "  Literary  Recollections  of  Mary  Russell  Mitford,"  and, 
although  Jeffrey's  literary  authority  is  a  thing  of  the  past, 
his_judgment  on  the  vigor  and  faithfulness  of  this  little  poem 
will  stand.  Although  his  poems  are  so  few,  John  Banim  is 
one  of  the  most  national  and  powerful  of  the  Irish  poets. 


SOGGARTH   AROON. 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 
Since  you  did  show  the  way, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 
While  they  would  work  with  me 
Ould  Ireland's  slavery, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will 
Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  aroon. 


260      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  no  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon,  — 
Nor  out  of  fear  to  you 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you,  — 
Och,  out  of  fear  to  you  ! 

Soggarth  aroon. 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  could  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Came  to  my  cabin  door, 
And,  on  my  earthen  flure, 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 
And,  when  my  hearth  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 


JOHN  BANIM.  261 

Och,  you  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 
Our  love  they  '11  never  shake, 
When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake 
We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon. 


AILLEEN. 

'T  is  not  for  love  of  gold  I  go, 

'T  is  not  for  love  of  fame, 
Though  fortune  may  her  smile  bestow, 

And  I  may  win  a  name, 
Ailleen, 

And  I  may  win  a  name. 

And  yet  it  is  for  gold  I  go, 

And  yet  it  is  for  fame, 
That  they  may  deck  another  brow, 

And  bless  another  name, 
Ailleen, 

And  bless  another  name. 

For  this  —  but  this,  I  go ;  for  this 

I  lose  thy  love  awhile, 
And  all  the  soft  and  quiet  bliss 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile, 
Ailleen, 

Of  thy  young,  faithful  smile. 


262       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

I  go  to  brave  a  world  I  hate, 

To  woo  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  tempt  a  wave  and  try  a  fate 

Upon  a  stranger  shore, 
Ailleen, 

Upon  a  stranger  shore. 

O,  when  the  bays  are  all  my  own, 

I  know  a  heart  will  care  ! 
0,  when  the  gold  is  wooed  and  won, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear, 
Ailleen, 

I  know  a  brow  shall  wear ! 

And  when,  with  both  returned  again, 

My  native  land  I  see, 
I  know  a  smile  will  greet  me  then, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me, 
Ailleen, 

And  a  hand  will  welcome  me. 


THE   FETCH.* 

THE  mother  died  when  the  child  was  born, 

And  left  me  her  baby  to  keep ; 
I  rocked  its  cradle  the  night  and  morn, 

And  silent  hung  o'er  it  to  weep. 

'T  was  a  sickly  child  through  its  infancy, 

Its  cheeks  were  so  ashy  pale, 
Till  it  broke  from  my  arms  to  walk  in  glee 

Out  in  the  sharp,  fresh  gale. 

*  The  Fetch  is  the  apparition  of  a  person  doomed  to  death. 


JOHN  BANIM.  283 

And  then  my  little  girl  grew  strong, 

And  laughed  the  hours  away ; 
Or  sung  me  the  merry  lark's  mountain  song, 

Which  he  taught  her  at  break  of  day. 

When  she  wreathed  her  hair  in  thicket  bowers, 

With  the  hedge-rose  and  harebell  blue, 
I  called  her  my  May  in  her  crown  of  flowers, 

With  her  smile  so  soft  and  new. 

And  the  rose,  I  thought,  never  shamed  her  cheek, 

But  rosy  and  rosier  made  it ; 
And  her  eye  of  blue  did  more  brightly  break 

Through  the  bluebell  that  strove  to  shade  it. 

One  evening  I  left  her  asleep  in  her  smiles, 
And  walked  through  the  mountains  lonely ; 

I  was  far  from  my  darling,  ah  !  many  long  miles, 
And  I  thought  of  her,  and  her  only. 

She  darkened  my  path  like  a  troubled  dream, 

In  that  solitude  far  and  drear ; 
I  spoke  to  my  child,  but  she  did  not  seem 

To  hearken  with  human  ear. 

She  only  looked  with  a  dead,  dead  eye, 

And  a  wan,  wan  cheek  of  sorrow. 
I  knew  her  Fetch ;  she  was  called  to  die, 

And  she  died  upon  the  morrow. 


264      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


HE   SAID    HE  WAS    NOT    OUR   BROTHER. 

This  song  refers  to  the  Duke  of  "Wellington,  at  the  time  of  his  oppo- 
sition to  Catholic  emancipation. 

HE  said  that  he  was  not  our  brother,  — 

The  mongrel !  he  said  what  we  knew  ! 
No,  Erin,  our  dear  island  mother, 

He  ne'er  had  his  black  blood  from  you  ! 
And  what  though  the  milk  of  your  bosom 

Gave  vigor  and  health  to  his  veins, 
He  was  but  a  foul  foreign  blossom, 

Blown  hither  to  poison  our  plains  ! 

He  said  that  the  sword  had  enslaved  us, 

And  still  at  its  point  we  must  kneel. 
The  liar !  though  often  it  braved  us, 

We  repaid  it  with  hardier  steel. 
This  witness  his  Richard,  —  our  vassal ; 

His  Essex,  whose  plumes  we  trod  down  j 
His  Willy,  whose  peerless  sword  tassel 

We  tarnished  at  Limerick  town. 

No  !  falsehood  and  feud  were  our  evils, 

While  force  not  a  fetter  could  twine. 
Come  Northmen,  come  Normen,  come  devils,  — 

We  gave  them  our  sparth  *  to  the  chine. 
And  if  once  again  he  would  try  us, 

To  the  music  of  trumpet  and  drum, 
And  no  traitor  among  us  or  nigh  us, 

Let  him  come,  —  the  brigand,  —  let  him  come  ! 

*  Sparth,  the  ancient  Irish  battle-axe. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


ERALD  GRIFFIN  was  contemporary  with  Banim,  hav- 
ing  been  born  fivje  years  later,  and  pursued  an  almost 
identical  literary  career.  He  was  born  in  Limerick,  Decem- 
ber 10,  1803,  and  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  brewer.  The 
failure  of  his  father  in  business  necessitated  the  removal  of 
the  family  into  the  country  to  a  place  called  Fairy  Lawn, 
about  thirty  miles  from  the  city,  where  the  youth  of  Gerald 
was  spent  in  the  beautiful  and  romantic  scenery  of  that  local- 
ity, the  demesne  of  the  Earl  of  Dunraven.  During  his  youth 
a  portion  of  the  family  emigrated  to  America,  leaving  Ger- 
ald and  his  two  sisters  to  the  care  of  an  elder  brother,  a  phy- 
sician. Gerald  early  manifested  literary  proclivities,  and 
commenced  with  contributions  to  the  Limerick  Advertiser,  a 
provincial  newspaper.  At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  had  writ- 
ten a  patriotic  drama  called  "  Aguire,"  and  full  of  dreams  of 
literary  fame  and  fortune  betook  himself  to  London.  There 
his  struggle  with  privation  and  discouragement  was  very 
severe.  He  was  not  successful  in  getting  his  tragedy  ac- 
cepted at  the  theatres,  and,  owing  in  a  measure  to  his  shy 
and  sensitive  spirit,  did  not  succeed  in  getting  remunerative 
employment  as  a  journalist  or  hack  writer  for  the  booksell- 
ers. He  was  on  more  than  one  occasion  reduced  to  absolute 
want  of  food,  and  privation  and  over  work  told  upon  his  mind 
so  that  he  misunderstood  and  rejected  the  aid  of  Banim  and 
Dr.  Maginn,  who  were  his  best  friends.  His  independence 


266   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

of  spirit  was  fanatical  in  its  fervor,  and  he  refused  either  to 
abandon  the  struggle  or  receive  assistance  of  any  kind,  con- 
cealing his  wants  and  depression  on  the  rare  occasions  when 
he  visited  the  firesides  of  his  friends,  and  walking  the  streets 
after  a  pressure  of  work  in  a  maze  of  double  consciousness. 

In  1825  he  succeeded  in  having  an  operatic  melodrama 
brought  out  at*  the  English  opera  house,  and  in  1827  pub- 
lished his  first  volume  of  Irish  stories,  "  Holland  Tide,  or 
Munster  Popular  Tales."  These  were  succeeded  by  a  second 
series  of  short  stories,  including  the  powerful  one  of  "  Suil 
Dhuv,  the  Coiner,"  by  his  novel  of  "  The  Collegians,  or  the 
Brides  of  Garryowen,"  and  other  stories,  all  written  hastily 
and  under  pressure  from  the  booksellers.  He  also  wrote  a 
tragedy  called  "  Gisippus,"  in  the  style  of  "  Damon  and 
Pythias,"  which  was  successfully  performed  after  his  death. 
His  spirit  became  worn  out  with  his  incessant  labor,  and 
many  disappointments ;  his  health  failed  in  a  measure  ;  and 
he  became  possessed  by  a  strong  religious  feeling.  One  of 
his  sisters  had  taken  the  veil  and  become  a  Sister  of  Charity, 
and  her  example  had  a  strong  influence  on  him.  Two  years 
later,  in  1838,  he  retired  from  the  world  and  joined  the  order 
of  Christian  Brothers  in  Cork,  whose  duties  were  the  educa- 
tion and  religious  instruction  of  poor  children.  He  died  in 
the  second  year  of  his  novitiate,  of  typhus  fever  contracted 
while  visiting  the  sick  poor.  After  his  death  his  works  were 
collected  in  a  uniform  edition,  with  a  memoir  by  his  brother, 
Daniel  Griffin,  M.  D.  Griffin's  character  was  in  the  highest 
degree  pure  and  lovable,  and  his  letters  to  his  family  give 
very  touching  records  of  a  literary  career  which  so  many 
bright  young  Irishmen  have  followed  in  the  wilderness  of 
London. 

His  novels  are  of  a  more  sustained  merit  than  those  of  the 
O'Hara  Family,  if  they  do  not  equal  them  in  detached  pas- 
sages. His  poetry,  with  the  exception  of  his  tragedies,  was  all 


GERALD  GRIFFIN.  267 

occasional,  and  in  its  fine  feeling  and  frequently  admirable 
felicity  is  evidence  of  what  he  might  have  accomplished  with 
more  leisure  and  a  spirit  less  perturbed  with  an  incessant 
and  painful  struggle  for  existence. 


GILLE    MA  CHREE. 

Gille  ma  cliree* 

Sit  down  by  me, 
We  now  are  joined  and  ne'er  shall  sever  : 

This  hearth 's  our  own, 

Our  hearts  are  one, 
And  peace  is  ours  forever. 

When  I  was  poor, 
Your  father's  door 

Was  closed  against  your  constant  lover ; 
With  care  and  pain, 
I  tried  in  vain 
My  fortunes  to  recover. 
I  said,  "  To  other  lands  I  '11  roam 

Where  fate  may  smile  on  me,  love." 
I  said,  "  Farewell,  my  own  old  home," 
And  I  said,  "  Farewell  to  thee,  love." 
Sing  Gille  ma  ckree,  etc. 

L  might  have  said, 

"  My  mountain  maid, 
Come  live  with  me,  your  own  true  lover, 

I  know  a  spot, 

A  silent  cot, 
Your  friends  can  ne'er  discover, 

*  Gille  ma  chree,  Brightener  of  my  heart. 


208      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Where  gently  flows  the  waveless  tide 

By  one  small  garden  only, 
Where  the  heron  waves  his  wings  so  wide, 

And  the  linnet  sings  so  lonely  ! " 
Sing,  Gille  ma  chree,  etc. 

I  might  have  said, 
"  My  mountain  maid, 
A  father's  right  was  never  given 
True  hearts  to  curse 
With  tyrant  force 
That  have  been  blest  in  heaven." 
But  then  I  said,  "  In  after  years, 

When  thoughts  of  home  shall  find  her, 
My  love  may  mourn  with  secret  tears 
Her  friends  thus  left  behind  her." 
Sing  Gille  ma  ckree,  etc. 

"  0,  no,"  I  said, 
"  My  own  dear  maid, 
For  me,  though  all  forlorn  forever, 
That  heart  of  thine 
Shall  ne'er  repine 
O'er  slighted  duty,  —  never. 
From  home  and  thee,  though  wandering  far, 

A  dreary  fate  be  mine,  love, 
I  'd  rather  live  in  endless  war, 

Than  buy  my  peace  with  thine,  love." 
Sing,  Gille  ma  ckree,  etc. 

Far,  far  away, 

By  night  and  day, 
I  toiled  to  win  a  golden  treasure, 

And  golden  gains 

Repaid  my  pains 
In  fair  and  shining  measure. 


GERALD  GRIFFIN.  269 

I  sought  again  my  native  land, 

Thy  father  welcomed  me,  love  j 
I  poured  my  gold  into  his  hand, 

And  my  guerdon  found  in  thee,  love. 
Sing,  Grille  ma  chree,  etc. 


SLEEP   THAT   LIKE   THE   COUCHED   DOVE. 

SLEEP  that  like  the  couched  dove 

Broods  o'er  the  weary  eye, 
Dreams  that  with  soft  heavings  move 

The  heart  of  memory, 
Labor's  guerdon,  golden  rest, 
Wrap  thee  in  its  downy  vest,  — 
Fall  like  comfort  on  thy  brain 
And  sing  the  hush  song  to  thy  pain  ! 

Far  from  thee  be  startling  fears, 
And  dreams  the  guilty  dream ; 
No  banshee  scare  thy  drowsy  ears, 

With  her  ill-omened  scream ; 
But  tones  of  fairy  minstrelsy 
Float  like  the  ghosts  of  sound  o'er  thee, 
Soft  as  the  chapel's  distant  bell, 
And  lull  thee  to  a  sweet  farewell. 

Ye  for  whom  the  ashy  hearth 

The  fearful  housewife  clears, 
Ye  whose  tiny  sounds  of  mirth 

The  nighted  carman  hears, 
Ye  whose  pygmy  hammers  make  * 
The  wonderers  of  the  cottage  wake, 
*  The  Leprechauns,  or  fairy  shoemakers. 


270      THE   POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Noiseless  be  your  airy  flight, 
Silent,  as  the  still  moonlight. 

Silent  go,  and  harmless  come, 

Fairies  of  the  stream,  — 
Ye,  who  love  the  winter  gloom, 

Or  the  gay  moonbeam,  — 
Hither  bring  your  drowsy  store, 
Gathered  from  the  bright  lusmore,* 
Shake  o'er  temples,  soft  and  deep, 
The  comfort  of  the  poor  man,  sleep. 


THE   SISTER   OF   CHARITY. 

SHE  once  was  a  lady  of  honor  and  wealth, 
Bright  glowed  on  her  features  the  roses  of  health ; 
Her  vesture  was  blended  of  silk  and  of  gold, 
And  her  motion  shook  perfume  from  every  fold. 
Joy  revelled  around  her,  —  love  shone  at  her  side,  — 
And  gay  was  her  smile  as  the  glance  of  a  bride, 
And  light  was  her  step  in  the  mirth-sounding  hall, 
Till  she  heard  of  the  daughters  of  Vincent  de  Paul. 

She  felt  in  her  spirit  the  summons  of  grace, 
That  called  her  to  live  for  the  suffering  race ; 
And  heedless  of  pleasure,  of  comfort,  of  home, 
Rose  quickly,  like  Mary,  and  answered,  "  I  come." 
She  put  from  her  person  the  trappings  of  pride, 
And  passed  from  her  home  with  the  joy  of  a  bride, 
Nor  wept  at  the  threshold  as  onward  she  moved, 
For  her  heart  was  on  fire  in  the  cause  it  approved. 

*  A  plant  called  the  "fairy  cap,"  the  Digitalis purpurea. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  271 

Lost  ever  to  fashion,  to  vanity  lost, 
That  beauty  that  once  was  the  song  and  the  toast; 
No  more  in  the  ball-room  that  figure  we  meet, 
But  gliding  at  dusk  to  the  wretch's  retreat. 
Forgot  in  the  halls  is  that  high-sounding  name, 
For  the  Sister  of  Charity  blushes  at  fame ; 
Forgot  are  the  claims  of  her  riches  and  birth, 
For  she  barters  for  heaven  the  glories  of  earth. 

Those  feet  that  to  music  would  gracefully  move 

Now  bear  her  alone  on  the  mission  of  love ; 

Those  hands  that  once  dangled  the  perfume  and  gem 

Are  tending  the  helpless,  or  lifted  for  them ; 

That  voice  that  once  echoed  the  song  of  the  vain 

Now  whispers  relief  to  the  bosom  of  pain ; 

And  the  hair  that  was  shining  with  diamond  and  pearl, 

Is  wet  with  the  tears  of  the  penitent  girl. 

Her  down  bed  a  pallet,  her  trinkets  a  bead, 
Her  lustre  one  taper,  that  serves  her  to  read, 
Her  sculpture  the  crucifix  nailed  by  her  bed, 
Her  paintings  one  print  of  the  thorn-crowned  head, 
Her  cushion  the  pavement  that  wearies  her  knees, 
Her  music  the  psalm  or  the  sigh  of  disease, 
The  delicate  lady  lives  mortified  there, 
And  the  feast  is  forsaken  for  fasting  and  prayer. 

Yet  not  to  the  service  of  heart  and  of  mind 

Are  the  cares  of  that  heaven-minded  virgin  confined ; 

Like  him  whom  she  loves,  to  the  mansions  of  grief 

She  hastes  with  the  tidings  of  joy  and  relief. 

She  strengthens  the  weary,  she  comforts  the  weak, 

And  soft  is  her  voice  in  the  ear  of  the  sick ; 

Where  want  and  affliction  on  mortals  attend, 

The  Sister  of  Charity  there  is  a  friend. 


272      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Unshrinking,  where  pestilence  scatters  his  breath, 
Like  an  angel  she  moves  'mid  the  vapor  of  death ; 
Where  rings  the  loud  musket  and  flashes  the  sword, 
Unfearing  she  walks,  for  she  follows  the  Lord. 
How  sweetly  she  bends  o'er  each  plague-tainted  face, 
With  looks  that  are  lighted  with  holiest  grace  ! 
How  kindly  she  dresses  each  suffering  limb, 
For  she  sees  in  the  wounded  the  image  of  Him ! 

Behold  her,  ye  worldly  !  behold  her,  ye  vain  ! 
Who  shrink  from  the  pathway  of  virtue  and  pain ; 
Who  yield  up  to  pleasure  your  nights  and  your  days, 
Forgetful  of  service,  forgetful  of  praise. 
Ye  lazy  philosophers,  self-seeking  men, 
Ye  fireside  philanthropists,  great  at  the  pen, 
How  stands  in  the  balance  your  eloquence  weighed 
With  the  life  and  the  deeds  of  that  high-born  maid  1 


FRANCES  BROWNE. 


FRANCES  BROWNE,  one  of  the  simplest  and  most  pa- 
thetic of  Irish  poetesses,  was  born  in  1816  at  Stranorlar, 
a  small  village  in  the  County  Donegal,  and  was  the  daughter 
of  its  postmaster.  When  eighteen  months  old  she  became 
totally  blind  from  the  effects  of  small-pox.  She  acquired  her 
first  learning  from  hearing  her  brothers  and  sisters  conning 
over  their  school  tasks,  and  became  acquainted  with  general 
literature  by  hearing  it  read  to  her.  Her  first  poems  ap- 
peared in  the  Dublin  Penny  Journal,  an  admirable  periodical 
devoted  to  national  literature,  and  she  afterward  became  a 
contributor  to  the  London  Atkenceum,  from  whose  editor  she 
received  much  kindness.  In  1844  she  published  "The  Star 
of  Atteghei,  and  Other  Poems,"  and  in  1847  issued  another 
volume,  "  Lyrics  and  Miscellaneous  Poems."  Shortly  after- 
ward a  pension  of  twenty  pounds  a  year  was  settled  on  her, 
and  the  Marquis  of  Lansdowne  set  the  example  of  a  gift  of  a 
hundred  pounds,  which  was  followed  by  others.  Her  longer 
poems  are  lacking  in  vigor  and  distinctness,  but  there  is  a 
vein  of  pathos  and  fine  feeling  in  her  happier  lyrics. 


18 


274      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE  LAST  FRIENDS. 

One  of  the  United  Irishmen,  who  lately  returned  to  his  native  conn- 
try  after  many  years  of  exile,  being  asked  what  had  induced  him  to  visit 
Ireland,  when  all  his  friends  were  gone,  answered,  "I  came  back  to  see 
the  mountains."  —  Author's  note. 

I  COME  to  my  country,  but  not  with  the  hope 

That  brightened  my  youth  like  the  cloud  lighting  bow ; 
For  the  vigor  of  soul  that  seemed  mighty  to  cope 

With  time  and  with  fortune  hath  fled  from  me  now, 
And  love  that  illumined  my  wanderings  of  yore 

Hath  perished,  and  left  but  a  weary  regret 
For  the  star  that  can  rise  on  my  midnight  no  more,  — 

But  the  hills  of  my  country  they  welcome  me  yet. 

The  hue  of  their  verdure  was  fresh  with  me  still, 

When  my  path  was  afar  by  the  Tanais'  lone  track ; 
From  the  wide-spreading  deserts  and  ruins  that  fill 

The  lands  of  old  story,  they  summoned  me  back ; 
They  rose  on  my  dreams  through  the  shades  of  the  West, 

They  breathed  upon  sands  which  the  dew  never  wet ; 
For  the  echoes  were  hushed  in  the  home  I  loved  best, 

And  I  knew  that  the  mountains  would  welcome  me  yet. 

The  dust  of  my  kindred  is  scattered  afar,  — 

They  lie  in  the  desert,  the  wild,  and  the  wave ; 
For  serving  the  strangers  through  wandering  and  war, 

The  isle  of  their  memory  could  grant  them  no  grave. 
And  I,  I  return  with  the  memory  of  years 

Whose  hope  rose  so  high,  though  in  sorrow  it  set ; 
They  have  left  on  my  soul  but  the  trace  of  their  tears, 

But  our  mountains  remember  their  promises  yet. 


FRANCES  BROWNE.  275 

0,  where  are  the  brave  hearts  that  bounded  of  old  1 

And  where  are  the  faces  my  childhood  has  seen  1 
For  fair  brows  are  furrowed,  and  hearts  have  grown  cold, 

But  our  streams  are  still  bright,  and  our  hills  are  still  green. 
Ay,  green  as  they  rose  to  the  eyes  of  my  youth, 

When  brothers  in  heart  in  their  shadows  we  met ; 
And  the  hills  have  no  memory  of  shadow  or  death, 

For  their  summits  are  sacred  to  liberty  yet. 

Like  ocean  retiring  the  morning  mists  now 

Roll  back  from  the  mountains  that  girdle  our  land ; 

And  sunlight  encircles  each  heath-covered  brow 

For  which  time  hath  no  furrow  and  tyrants  no  brand. 

0,  thus  let  it  be  with  the  hearts  of  the  isle  ! 
Efface  the  dark  seal  that  oppression  has  set ; 

Give  back  the  lost  glory  again  to  the  soil. 

-    For  the  hills  of  my  country  remember  it  yet. 


LOSSES. 

UPON  the  white  sea  sand 

•There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known ; . 

While  evening  waned  away 

From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary  moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship, 
With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone  down ; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe,  — 

For  a  fair  face  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 


276       THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

There  were  who  mourned  their  youth, 

With  a  most  loving  ruth, 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green ; 

But  one  upon  the  West 

Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joys  had  been. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honors  told, 
Some  spake  of  friends  that  were  their  trust  no  more 

And  one,  of  a  green  grave 

Beside  a  foreign  wave, 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free  : 

"  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet, 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me." 

"  Alas  ! "  these  pilgrims  said, 

"  For  the  living  and  the  dead, 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  or  sea ! 

But  however  it  came  to  thee, 
Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest  loss." 


FRANCES  BROWNE.  277 


THE  FOUR  TRAVELLERS. 

FOUR  travellers  sat  one  winter  night 

At  my  father's  board  so  free, 
And  he  asked  them  why  they  left  their  land, 

And  why  they  crossed  the  sea. 

One  said  for  bread,  and  one  for  gold, 

And  one  for  a  cause  of  strife  \ 
And  one  he  came  for  a  lost  love's  sake 

To  lead  a  stranger's  life. 

They  dwelt  among  our  hamlets  long, 
They  learned  each  mountain  way ; 

They  shared  our  sports  in  the  woodlands  green, 
And  by  the  crags  so  gray ; — 

And  they  were  brave  by  flood  and  fell, 

And  they  were  blithe  in  hall ; 
But  he  that  led  the  stranger's  life 

Was  blithest  of  them  all. 

Some  said  the  grief  of  his  youth  had  passed, 

Some  said  his  love  grew  cold  ; 
But  naught  I  know  if  this  were  so, 

For  the  tale  was  never  told. 

His  mates  they  found  both  home  and  friends, 

Their  heads  and  hearts  to  rest ; 
We  saw  their  flocks  and  fields  increase, 

But  we  loved  him  still  the  best. 


278      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Now  he  that  came  to  seek  for  bread 

Is  lord  of  my  father's  land, 
And  he  that  fled  so  far  from  strife 

Hath  a  goodly  household  band ;  — 

And  he  that  sought  the  gold  alone 

Hath  wedded  my  sister  fair ; 
And  the  oaks  are  green  and  the  pastures  wide 

By  their  goodly  homestead  there. 

But  when  they  meet  by  the  winter  fire, 
Or  beneath  the  bright  woodbine, 

Their  talk  is  yet  of  a  whelming  stream 
And  a  brave  life  given  for  mine. 

For  a  grave  by  our  mountain-river  side 

Grows  green  this  many  a  year, 
Where  the  flower  of  the  four  sleeps  evermore, 

And  I  am  a  stranger  here. 


FRANCIS  MAHONY. 


FRANCIS  MAHONY,  who  has  obtained  remembrance 
chiefly  by  the.  signal  felicity  of  a  single  poem  almost 
equal  in  its  degree  to  that  of  Wolfe's  ode  on  the  Burial  of  Sir 
John  Moore,  was  born  at  Cork  in  1804.  He  was  educated 
in  France  in  the  Jesuit  College  at  Amiens,  and  there  imbibed 
the  knowledge  of  Latin  so  curious  and  familiar  that  it  was 
almost  like  a  native  tongue.  He  afterward  studied  at  Rome, 
and  became  deeply  familiar  with  the  classics,  and  particularly 
with  the  literature  of  the  Fathers  and  the  early  writers  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  whose  quaintnesses  of  humor  and  ex- 
pression he  sought  out  with  a  thoroughly  congenial  spirit. 
He  was  ordained  as  priest,  and  officiated  as  one  of  the  Jesuit 
order  at  Rome,  and  afterward  at  Cork.  His  tastes  were, 
however,  rather  for  a  literary  and  Bohemian  life,  and  in 
1837  he  abandoned  the  service  of  the  priesthood  to  become 
a  journalist  and  magazine  writer  in  London.  He  was  a  fre- 
quent contributor  to  Frazer's  Magazine,  then  under  the  edi- 
torship of  Dr.  Maginn,  and  his  portrait  appears  at  the  table 
of  contributors  drawn  by  Maclise,  and  which  included  Thack- 
eray and  Carlyle  in  conjunction  with  Harrison  Ains worth 
and  other  writers  of  ephemeral  reputation,  who  in  their  day 
enjoyed  a  greater  popularity. 

Mahony's  contributions  were  in  the  character  of  "  Father 
Prout,  parish  priest  of  Watergrasshill,  in  the  County  Cork," 
and  were  essays  in  an  unfamiliar  vein  of  learning,  transla- 


280      THE  POETS  AND    POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

tions  from  various  languages,  and  exercises  in  transposing 
slang  and  familiar  songs  into  Greek  and  Latin,  with  the 
rather  far-fetched  humor  of  charging  plagiarism  upon  the 
modern  authors.  Most  of  them  were  in  a  vein  of  rather  ar- 
tificial facetiousness,  and  displayed  more  curious  pedantry 
than  genuine  humor.  Mahony  was  rather  possessed  by  his 
learning  than  the  master  of  it  like  Maginn,  and  entirely  lacked 
the  vigor,  conciseness,  and  strength  of  the  latter.  His  illus- 
trations and  quotations  were,  however,  sometimes  happy,  as 
well  as  curious,  and  one  of  his  translations,  a  paraphrase  of 
Beranger's  "  Le  Grenier,"  is  among  the  happiest  in  the  Eng- 
lish language,  having  both  the  grace  and  spirit  of  the  original, 
and  a  felicity  of  rhythm  that  thoroughly  accented  it  in  the 
mind.  There  have  been  many  translations  of  the  poem,  but 
none  that  rivals  this  of  Mahony. 

For  many  years  he  was  the  Roman  correspondent  of  the 
London  Daily  Neivs,  and  for  the  last  eight  years  of  his  life 
the  resident  Paris  correspondent  of  the  London  Globe,  his 
letters  mingling  the  same  vein  of  quaint  learning  and  illus- 
tration with  the  news  of  the  day.  His  life  was  Bohemian  in 
its  disregard  for  appearances,  and  he  spent  a  great  portion  of 
his  time  immersed  in  books ;  but  his  quaint  figure  —  a  small 
person  wrapped  in  an  immense  overcoat,  with  shuffling  feet 
clad  in  moccasins,  his  wizened,  good-humored  countenance 
and  green  spectacles  —  was  welcome  and  familiar  to  the 
society  of  foreign  artists  and  students  in  Paris,  who  loved 
the  kindly  spirit  of  the  literary  veteran.  He  died  in  1866. 
During  his  London  experience  he  published  a  volume  of  his 
collected  magazine  articles  under  the  title  of  "  The  Reliques 
of  Father  Prout,"  with  illustrations  by  Daniel  Maclise,  and 
after  his  death  a  volume  of  final  memorials,  extracts  from 
letters  and  contributions  to  newspapers,  was  collected  and 
published  by  Blanchard  Jerrold. 

The  poem  upon  which  his  popularity  rests  is  "  The  Bells 


FRANCIS  MAHONY.  281 

of  Shandon,"  and  it  is  due  chiefly  to  a  rhythmical  measure, 
which  takes  possession  of  the  ear  in  a  recurrence  of  swing  and 
melodiousness  singularly  appropriate  to  the  subject.  Shan- 
don church,  with  its  square  steeple  built  with  alternate  sides 
of  red  and  gray  stone,  is  a  conspicuous  object  in  the  centre 
of  Cork. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON. 

&abbata  panp, 
JFunera  plango, 
^olemnia  clango. 

Inscription  on  an  old  Bell. 

WITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would 
In  the  days  of  childhood 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee  ; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in 


282       THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 
For  memory  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on. 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican. 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame ; 
But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly ;  — 
0,  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee  ! 

There 's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk,  o  ! 


FRANCIS  MAHONY.  283 

In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summits 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  'em  ; 
But  there  is  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me,  — 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shan  don 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


THOMAS  DAVIS  AND  THE  POETS  OF 
"THE  NATION." 

IN  1842  "The  Nation"  newspaper  was  established  in  Dub- 
lin by  Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  an  enthusiastic  and  eloquent 
young  Irishman,  then  in  the  twenty-fourth  year  of  his  age. 
He  had  served  some  apprenticeship  in  journalism,  having 
been  connected  with  a  paper  in  Belfast  since  his  eighteenth 
year,  and  he  fully  shared  the  spirit  of  the  great  agitation  led 
by  O'Connell,  which,  having  achieved  Catholic  emancipation, 
had  passed  to  a  demand  for  a  repeal  of  the  Union,  and  with 
it  to  ideas  of  the  complete  severance  of  the  tie  to  Great 
Britain,  and  the  independence  of  the  nation.  It  was  estab- 
lished to  support  O'Connell  in  his  extreme  demands,  and  in- 
stantly attracted  to  itself  a  number  of  ardent  and  enthusiastic 
young  men,  who  were  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  ideas  of 
nationality.  They  poured  out  in  its  columns  a  flood  of  pas- 
sionate language  in  prose  and  verse,  expressing  the  strongest 
feelings,  and  full  of  an  ardent  and  enthusiastic  eloquence^ 
It  was  an  era  as  remarkable  for  literary  efflorescence  as  that 
of  the  Union  for  parliamentary  eloquence,  and  the  Nation  em- 
bodied a  large  portion  of  what  was  best  and  brightest  of  the 
young  Irish  intellect.  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee,  still  younger 
than  Duffy,  and  Thomas  Osborne  Davis,  James  Clarence 
Mangan,  and  Denis  Florence  McCarthy,  of  distinguished  mark 
in  Irish  literature,  as  well  as  man}1-  others  of  lesser  fame, 
contributed  a  great  quantity  of  national  poetry,  illustrating 
events  in  history  calculated  to  arouse  the  pride  or  indigna- 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  285 

tion  of  the  Celtic  population,  or  fiery  lyrics  in  direct  appeal 
to  their  patriotism.  There  was  an  immense  amount  of  power 
and  vigor  in  this  new  outburst  of  poetry,  which  represented 
the  full  strength  of  the  national  feeling  as  had  not  been  done 
since  the  bards  were  silenced  and  their  successors  reduced  to 
sing  the  wrongs  and  woes  of  their  country  in  disguise.  The 
political  movement  passed  the  limits  of  peaceable  agitation 
fixed  by  O'Connell,  and  advocated  an  appeal  to  more  forcible 
measures,  which  resulted  in  the  disastrous  insurrection  of 
1848,  the  banishment  of  the  leaders,  and  the  emasculation 
of  the  literary  organ,  "The- Nation."  But  that  period  of  six 
years  is  one  of  the  most  marked  in  Ireland's  literary  history, 
and  gave  birth  to  a  new  school  of  poets,  which  was  the 
embodiment  of  enthusiastic  patriotism  and  national  spirit. 
Their  influence  by  no  means  became  extinct  with  the  imme- 
diate period  of  their  work,  but  it  continues  to  the  present 
day  in  the  most  abundant  element  of  Irish  poetry. 

Thomas  Osborne  Davis  is  to  be  considered  the  type  of  the 
Nation  poets,  for  if  he  is  not  superior  in  literary  merit  to 
Mangan  and  McCarthy,  his  purpose  and  development  were 
those  of  a  strictly  national  poet,  and  he  did  not  attempt  any 
other  form  of  literature.  He  was  simply  and  solely  a  na- 
tional bard  to  arouse  the  spirit  of  his  countrymen,  and  he 
became  a  poet  for  that  purpose  only.  His  ambition  and 
proclivities  were  for  statesmanship,  and  he  took  to  writing 
poetry  as  a  means  to  an  end,  and  because  no  one  else  seemed 
at  hand  to  do  it.  Whether  he  would  have  grown  and  ripened 
into  a  broader  and  more  representative  poet  in  a  purely  liter- 
ary sense  can  only  be  conjectured,  as  an  untimely  death  put 
an  end  to  his  dreams  and  hopes ;  but  he  thoroughly  estab- 
lished his  place  as  one  of  the  finest  lyrical  poets  of  Ireland. 

He  was  born  at  Mallow,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  in  1814. 
His  father  was  a  Welshman  long  settled  in  the  South  of  Ire- 
land, and  his  strong  feeling  of  Celtic  nationality  was  Cymric 


286      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

rather  than  Milesian  "by  blood  and  lineage.  He  was  educated 
at  Trinity  College,  where  he  manifested  no  particular  apti- 
tude for  literature,  and  on  the  establishment  of  the  Nation 
he  joined  its  council,  if  not  its  regular  staff.  It  was  agreed 
among  the  ardent  young  men  that  one  powerful  stimulus  to 
national  feeling  would  be  poetry,  and  in  default  of  response 
to  their  appeal  they  resolved  to  write  it  themselves.  Davis 
was  the  most  reluctant  and  doubtful  of  his  own  powers,  but 
soon  surpassed  his  associates  in  poetical  skill  and  strength, 
and  lived  to  produce  three  or  four  poems,  among  a  consider- 
able quantity  of  unequal  merit,  of  a  very  high  standard  of 
lyrical  form  and  felicity  of  expression  as  well  as  spirit.  After 
the  divided  councils  and  discouragement  of  the  party  follow- 
ing the  imprisonment  of  O'Connell  in  1844,  and  the  separa- 
tion of  the  great  leader,  who  held  together  and  wielded  the 
whole  strength  of  the  nation,  from  those  who  advocated  revo- 
lution, Davis  drooped  in  health  and  spirits,  and  died,  after  a 
brief  illness,  at  his  mother's  residence  in  Bagot  Street,  Dub- 
lin, in  1845.  He  was  deeply  mourned  as  the  chief  leader  of 
the  Young  Ireland  party,  and  although  there  is  little  doubt 
that  he  would  have  shared  in  the  attempt  at  revolution  by 
his  associates,  it  is  probable  that  he  foresaw  failure  when 
the  national  movement  was  divided,  and  that  it  had  a  fatal 
effect  on  his  spirits.  He  lies  buried  in  Mount  St.  Jerome 
Cemetery,  near  Dublin,  where  a  statue  has  been  erected,  and 
of  all  the  Irish  poets  there  is  none  so  thoroughly  enshrined 
in  what  may  be  termed  the  politically  national  spirit  of  the 
people.  The  qualities  of  his  poetry  are  what  might  be  ex- 
pected from  his  life,  a  chivalric  spirit,  a  passionate  vigor,  and 
at  times  a  fine  vein  of  tenderness  and  pathos.  "  The  Sack  of 
Baltimore"  and  "Fontenoy"  are  justly  regarded  as  among 
the  finest  ballads  in  the  English  language. 

The  record  of  the  careers  of  the  members  of  the  Young 
Ireland  party  after  the  failure  of  the  insurrection  in  1848, 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  287 

and  the  transportation  of  its  leaders  to  the  penal  settlements, 
is  a  very  remarkable  one.  They  furnished  distinguished 
statesmen  to  the  British  colonies,  gallant  commanders  in  the 
American  war,  and  in  many  ways  achieved  successful  as  well 
as  romantic  and  adventurous  careers.  One  of  the  most  re- 
markable of  these  was  that  of  Thomas  D'Arcy  McGee,  in  its 
variety  of  experiences  and  its  tragic  end.  He  was  born  at 
Carliugford,  April  18,  1825,  and  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
became  associate  editor  of  the  Nation,  to  which  he  was  a 
very  voluminous  contributor  in  prose  and  verse.  After  the 
failure  of  the  insurrection  he  came  to  America  and  estab- 
lished the  Pilot  newspaper  in  Boston,  then  and  now  one  of 
the  leading  Catholic  and  Irish-American  newspapers.  He 
again  returned  to  Ireland,  and  finally  settled  in  Canada, 
where  he  became  a  successful  politician,  and  held  important 
positions  in  the  Colonial  administration.  He  was  assassi- 
nated in  Ottawa,  Canada,  April  7,  1868,  by  Patrick  Whealen, 
because  of  his  opposition  to  Fenianism,  a  singular  end  for  one 
who  began  life  as  an  Irish  revolutionist.  His  poems  have 
been  collected  and  published,  with  a  memoir.  Although  he 
did  not  always  maintain  complete  felicity  throughout,  some 
of  his  lyrics  display  great  force  and  vigor.  He  is  the  D'Arcy 
of  Miss  Annie  Keary's  charming  novel,  "  Castle  Daly." 

Charles  Gavan  Duffy,  the  founder  of  the  Nation,  suffered 
imprisonment  with  O'Connell  in  1844,  and  in  1848  was  tried 
with  Smith  O'Brien,  Mitchell,  and  Meagher  for  participation 
in  the  rebellion,  but  was  acquitted  by  the  jury.  In  1852  he 
was  elected  a  member  of  Parliament  for  New  Ross,  but  after 
a  few  years  of  service  emigrated  to  Australia,  where  he  prac- 
tised at  the  bar  and  became  a  successful  politician.  He  be- 
came a  member  of  the  government,  and  in  1871  was  Prime 
Minister,  receiving  the  honor  of  knighthood.  His  poems  are 
few  in  number  and  not  those  of  a  trained  poet,  but  are 
marked  with  simplicity  and  feeling. 

One  of  the  most  powerful  and  original  of  the   Nation's 


288   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

poets,  although  not  a  sharer  in  the  political  movement,  was 
Francis  Davis,  a  weaver  of  Belfast,  who  wrote  his  poems 
while  working  at  his  trade.  They  have  an  Oriental  redun- 
dancy of  expression,  but  great  vigor  and  rhetorical  strength. 
They  have  been  published  in  a  volume  with  the  nom  de 
plume  of  "  The  Belfast  Man." 

John  Frazer,  who  signed  his  poems  "  J.  de  Jean,"  was  born 
in  Birr,  King's  County,  in  1809,  and  followed  through  life 
the  trade  of  a  cabinet-maker.  He  died  in  Dublin,  in  1849. 
A  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  after  his  death. 

John  Keegan  was  born  in  a  small  village  in  Queen's 
County,  in  1809,  and  in  early  life  was  a  schoolmaster.  Later 
he  was  a  journalist  and  magazine  writer  in  Dublin,  where  he 
died,  in  1849.  He  was  a  student  and  collector  of  the  fairy 
lore  of  the  people,  and  published  some  interesting  articles 
relating  to  it.  In  his  poems  he  represented  peasant  life 
more  thoroughly  than  most  of  his  associates. 

One  of  the  most  earnest  and  voluminous  of  the  poetical 
writers  of  the  Nation  was  "Speranza,"  the  nom  de  plume  of 
Jane  Francesca  Elgee,  a  native  of  Wexford  and  a  daughter 
of  Archdeacon  Elgee  of  the  Established  Church.  She  was  a 
very  ardent  nationalist,  in  spite  of  the  contrary  affiliations  of 
her  family  and  social  circle.  In  1851  she  married  Mr.  Wil- 
liam R.  Wilde,  a  physician  of  Dublin,  who  was  afterward 
knighted  for  his  services  as  superintendent  of  the  census,  and 
who  has  contributed  both  to  the  literature  of  science  and  the 
archaeological  history  of  Ireland.  Lady  Wilde's  poems  have 
been  collected  in  a  volume,  and  comprise  some  translations 
and  pieces  on  general  subjects,  as  well  as  her  contributions 
to  the  Nation. 

Several  of  the  most  striking  of  the  poems  published  in  the 
Nation  were  anonymous,  or  over  a  nom  de  plume,  and  have 
never  been  publicly  acknowledged.  Among  these  are  two  of 
the  finest  and  most  spirited  of  the  patriotic  appeals,  "  The 
Memory  of '98,"  and  "Dear  Land." 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  289 

THE  SACK   OF   BALTIMORE. 
THOMAS  DAVIS. 

Baltimore  is  a  small  seaport  in  the  barony  of  Carbery,  in  South 
Munster.  It  grew  up  round  a  castle  of  O'Driscoll's,  and  after  his  ruin 
was  colonized  by  the  English.  On  the  20th  of  June,  1631,  the  crews 
of  two  Algerine  galleys  landed  in  the  dead  of  night,  sacked  the  town, 
and  bore  off  into  slavery  all  who  were  not  too  old,  too  young,  or  too 
fierce  for  their  purpose.  The  pirates  were  steered  up  the  intricate  chan- 
nel by  one  Hackett,  a  Dungarvan  fisherman,  whom  they  had  taken 
up  at  sea  for  the  purpose.  Two  years  afterward  he  was  convicted 
and  executed  for  the  crime.  Baltimore  never  recovered  this  blow.  — 
Autlwrs  note. 

THE  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's  hundred  isles, 
The  summer  sun  is  gleaming  still  through  Gabriel's  rough 

denies. 

Old  Inisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like  a  moulting  bird ; 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean  tide  is  heard. 
The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach,  the  children  cease  their 

play, 

The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn,  the  households  kneel  to  pray ; 
And  full  of  love  and  peace  and  rest,  its  daily  labor  o'er, 
Upon  that  cosey  creek  there  lay  the  town  of  Baltimore. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  with  midnight  there  ; 
No  sound  except  that  throbbing  wave  in  earth,  or  sea,  or  air. 
The  massive  capes  and  ruined  towers  seem  conscious  of  the 

calm; 

The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breathing  heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  those  two  long  barques  round  Dunashad 

that  glide 
Must  trust  their  oars,  methinks  not  few,  against  the  ebbing 

tide ;  — 

19 


290      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

0,  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must  urge  them  to  the 

shore ! 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride,  who  sighs  in  Baltimore. 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that  rocky  street, 
And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends  with  gently  gliding 

feet. 

A  stifled  gasp,  a  dreamy  noise  !     "  The  roof  is  in  a  flame  !  " 
From  out  their  beds  and  to  their  doors  rush  maid  and  sire 

and  dame, 
And  meet  upon  the  threshold  stone  the  gleaming  sabre's 

fall, 
And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the  white  or  crimson 

shawl. 
The  yell  of  "Allah  ! "  breaks  above  the  prayer  and  shriek  and 

roar,  — 
0,  blessed  God  !  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Baltimore  ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against  the  shearing 

sword ; 
Then  sprung  the  mother  on  the  brand  with  which  her  son 

was  gored ; 

Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his  grandbabes  clutch- 
ing wild ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden,  moaning  faint,  and  nestled  with  the 

child. 
But  see  yon  pirate  strangled  lies,  and  crushed  with  splashing 

heel, 
While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  there  sweeps  the  Syrian's 

steel ;  — 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and  misers  yield  their 

store, 
There  's  one  hearth  well  avenged  in  the  sack  of  Baltimore ! 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  291 

Midsummer  morn  in  woodland  nigh  the  birds  began  to  sing,  — 
They  see  not  now  the  milk  ing-maids,  —  deserted  is  the  spring  ! 
Midsummer  day  this  gallant  rides  from  distant  Bandon's 

town, 
These  hookers  cross  from  stormy  Skull,  this  skiff  from  Affa- 

dovvn : 
They  only  found  the  smoking  walls  with  neighbors'  blood 

besprent, 
And  on  the  strewed  and  trampled  beach  awhile  they  wildly 

went, 
Then  dashed  to  sea,  and  passed  Cape   Clear,  and  saw,  five 

leagues  before, 
The  pirate  galleys  vanishing  that  ravaged  Baltimore. 


0,  some  must  tug  the  galley's  oar,  and  some  must  tend  the 

steed ; 
This  boy  shall  bear  a  Sheik's  chibouk,  and  that  a  Bey's 

jerreed ; 

0,  some  are  for  the  arsenals  by  beauteous  Dardanelles, 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's  sandy  dells. 
The  maid  that  Bandon  gallant  sought  is  chosen  for  the  Dey  : 
She 's  safe,  —  she 's  dead,  —  she  stabbed  him  in  the  midst  of 

his  Serai ! 

And  whan  to  die  a  death  of  fire  that  noble  maid  they  bore, 
She  only  smiled,  —  O'Driscoll's  child,  —  she  thought  of  Balti- 
more. 

'T  is  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town  beneath  that  bloody 

band, 
And  all  around   its   trampled   hearths  a  larger  concourse 

stand, 

Where  high  upon  a  gallows-tree  a  yelling  wretch  is  seen,  — 
'T  is  Hackett  of  Dungarvan,  he  who  steered  the  Algerine ! 


292      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

He  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout  with  scarce  a  passing  prayer, 
For  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many  a  hundred  there. 
Some  muttered  of  MacMurchadh,  who  brought  the  Norman 

o'er, 
Some  cursed  him  with  Iscariot  that  day  in  Baltimore. 


FONTENOY. 
THOMAS  DAVIS. 

THRICE  at  the  huts  of  Fontenoy  the  English  column  failed, 
And  twice  the  lines  of  Saint  Antoine  the  Dutch  in  vain 

assailed ; 

For  town  and  slope  were  filled  with  fort  and  flanking  battery, 
And  well  they  swept  the  English  ranks  and  Dutch  auxiliary. 
As  vainly  through  De  Barri's  wood  the  British  soldiers  burst, 
The  French  artillery  drove  them  back,  diminished  and  dis- 
persed. 

The  bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland  beheld  with  anxious  eye, 
And  ordered  up  his  last  reserve,  his  latest  chance  to  try  j 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  how  fast  his  generals  ride ! 
And  mustering  come  his  chosen  troops  like  clouds  at  even- 
tide. 

Six  thousand  English  veterans  in  stately  column  tread, 
Their  cannon  blaze  in  front  and  flank,  Lord  Hay  is  at  their 

head : 
Steady  they  step  adown  the  slope,  steady  they  climb  the 

hill; 
Steady   they  load,  steady  they  fire,  moving   right   onward 

still  ; 

Betwixt  the  road  and  Fontenoy,  as  through  a  furnace  blast, 
Through  rampart,  trench,  and  palisade,  and  bullets  showering 

fast; 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  293 

And  on  the  open  plain  above  they  rose  and  kept  their  course, 
With  ready  fire  and  grim  resolve,  that  mocked  at  hostile 

force ; 

Pas*  Fontenoy,  past  Fontenoy,  while  thinner  grow  their  ranks, 
They  break,  as  broke  the  Zuyder  Zee  through  Holland's  ocean 

banks. 

More  idly  than  the  summer  flies,  French  tirailleurs  rush 
round  j 

As  stubble  to  the  lava  tide  French  squadrons  strew  the 
ground ; 

Bomb-shell  and  grape  and  round-shot  tore,  —  still  on  they 
marched  and  fired,  — 

Fast  from  each  volley,  grenadier  and  voltigeur  retired. 

"  Push  on  my  household  cavalry  !  "  King  Louis  madly  cried  : 

To  death  they  rush,  but  rude  their  shock,  —  not  unavenged 
they  died. 

On  througH  the  camp  the  column  trod,  —  King  Louis  turns 
his  rein. 

"Not  yet,  my  liege,"  Saxe  interposed,  "the  Irish  troops  re- 
main." 

And  Fontenoy,  famed  Fontenoy,  had  been  a  Waterloo, 

Were  not  those  exiles  ready  then,  fresh,  vehement,  and  true. 

"  Lord  Clare,"  he  says,  "  you  have  your  wish,  —  there  are  your 
Saxon  foes ! " 

The  Marshal  almost  smiles  to  see  how  furiously  he  goes ! 

How  fierce  the  look  those  exiles  wear,  who  're  wont  to  be  so 
gay! 

The  treasured  wrongs  of  fifty  years  are  in  their  hearts  to- 
day,— 

The  treaty  broken  ere  the  ink  wherewith  't  was  writ  was  dry, 

Their  plundered  homes,  their  ruined  shrines,  their  women's 
parting  cry, 


294      THE  POETS  AND  POETEY   OF  IRELAND. 

Their  priesthood  hunted  down  like  wolves,  their  country 

overthrown,  — 

Each  looks  as  if  revenge  for  all  were  staked  on  him  alone. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  nor  ever  yet  elsewhere, 
Rushed  on  to  fight  a  nobler  band  than  these  proud  exiles 

were. 

O'Brien's  voice  is  hoarse  with  joy,  as,  halting,  he  commands, 

"  Fix  bay'nets  !  —  Charge  ! "  Like  mountain  storm  rush  on 
those  fiery  bands, 

Thin  is  the  English  column  now,  and  faint  their  volleys  grow, 

Yet,  mustering  all  the  strength  they  have,  they  make  a  gal- 
lant show. 

They  dress  their  ranks  upon  the  hill  to  meet  that  battle 
wind, 

Their  bayonets  the  breakers'  foam,  —  like  rocks  the  men  be- 
hind ! 

One  volley  crashes  from  their  line,  when  through  the  sur- 
ging smoke, 

With  empty  guns  clutched  in  their  hands,  the  headlong  Irish 
broke. 

On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  hark  to  that  fierce  huzza ! 

"  Revenge  !  remember  Limerick  !  dash  down  the  Sacsanagh ! " 

Like  lions  leaping  at  the  fold,  when  mad  with  hunger's  pang, 
Right  up  against  the  English  line  the  Irish  exiles  sprang : 
Bright  was  their  steel,  't  is  bloody  now,  their  guns  are  filled 

with  gore, 
Through   shattered   ranks  and  severed  files  and   trampled 

flags  they  tore. 
The  English  strove  with  desperate  strength,  paused,  rallied, 

staggered,  fled, 
The  green  hillside  is  matted  close  with  dying  and  with  dead. 


THE  POETS  OF  THE  "NATION."  295 

Across  the  plain  and  far  away  passed  on  that  hideous  wrack, 
While  cavalier  and  fantassin  dash  in  upon  their  track. 
On  Fontenoy,  on  Fontenoy,  like  eagles  in  the  sun, 
With  bloody  plumes  the  Irish  stand,  —  the  field  is  fought 
and  won. 


THE   LOST   PATH. 

THOMAS  DAVIS. 

SWEET  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  be, 

All  comfort  else  has  flown ; 
For  every  hope  was  false  to  me, 

And  here  I  am  alone. 
What  thoughts  were  mine  in  early  youth ! 

Like  some  old  Irish  song, 
Brimful  of  love,  and  life,  and  truth, 

My  spirit  gushed  along. 

I  hoped  te  right  my  native  isle, 

I  hoped  a  soldier's  fame, 
I  hoped  to  rest  in  woman's  smile, 

And  win  a  minstrel's  name. 
0,  little  have  I  served  my  land ! 

No  laurels  press  my  brow; 
I  have  no  woman's  heart  or  hand, 

Nor  minstrel  honors  now. 

But  fancy  has  a  magic  power, 

It  brings  me  wreath  and  crown, 
And  woman's  love,  the  selfsame  hour, 

It  smites  oppression  down. 


296   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Sweet  thoughts,  bright  dreams,  my  comfort  be, 

I  have  no  joy  beside; 
0,  throng  around,  and  be  to  me 

Power,  country,  fame,  and  bride  ! 


MAIRE  BHAN  A  STOR. 
THOMAS  DAVIS. 

IN  a  valley  far  away 

With  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor* 
Short  would  be  the  summer  day, 

Ever  loving  more  and  more. 
Winter  days  would  all  grow  long, 

With  the  light  her  heart  would  pour 
With  her  kisses  and  her  song, 
And  her  loving  maith  go  leor^ 
Fond  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Fair  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor> 
Sweet  as  ripple  on  the  shore 
Sings  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

0,  her  sire  is  very  proud, 

And  her  mother  cold  as  stone, 
But  her  brother  bravely  vowed 

She  should  be  my  bride  alone ; 
For  he  knew  I  loved  her  well, 

And  he  knew  she  loved  me  too. 

*  Maire  bhan  a  stor,  Fair  Mary  my  treasure,  —  pronounced  Maurya 
vaun  astore. 

t  Maith  go  leor,  in  abundance. 


THE  POETS  OF   "THE  NATION."  297 

So  he  sought  their  pride  to  quell, 
But  't  was  all  in  vain  to  sue. 
True  is  Muire  bhan  a  stor, 
Tried  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Had  I  wings  I  'd  never  soar 
From  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

There  are  lands  where  manly  toil 

Surely  reaps  the  crop  it  sows, 
Glorious  woods  and  teeming  soil, 

Where  the  broad  Missouri  flows ; 
Through  the  trees  the  smoke  shall  rise 
From  our  hearth  with  maith  go  leor, 
There  shall  shine  the  happy  eyes 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 

Mild  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Mine  is  Maire  bhan  a  stor, 
Saints  will  watch  about  the  door 
Of  my  Maire  bhan  a  stor. 


THE  CELTIC   CROSS. 
THOMAS  D'AncY  McGEE. 

THROUGH  storm  and  fire  and  gloom,  I  see  it  stand, 

Firm,  broad,  and  tall, 
The  Celtic  Cross  that  marks  our  Fatherland, 

Amid  them  all ! 
Druids  and  Danes  and  Saxons  vainly  rage 

Around  its  base ; 
It  standeth  shock  on  shock,  and  age  on  age, 

Star  of  a  scattered  race. 


298      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

0  Holy  Cross  !  dear  symbol  of  the  dread 

Death  of  our  Lord, 
Around  thee  long  have  slept  our  martyr  dead 

Sward  over  sward ! 
An  hundred  bishops  I  myself  can  count 

Among  the  slain ; 
Chiefs,  captains,  rank  and  file,  a  shining  mount 

Of  God's  ripe  grain. 

The  monarch's  mace,  the  Puritan's  claymore, 

Smote  thee  not  down ; 
On  headland  steep,  on  mountain  summit  hoar, 

In  mart  and  town ; 
In  Glendalough,  in  Ara,  in  Tyrone, 

We  find  thee  still, 
Thy  open  arms  still  stretching  to  thy  own, 

O'er  town  and  lough  and  hill. 

And  would  they  tear  thee  out  of  Irish  soil, 

The  guilty  fools ! 
How  time  must  mock  their  antiquated  toil 

And  broken  tools ! 
Cranmer  and  Cromwell  from  thy  grasp  retired, 

Earned  and  thrown ; 
William  and  Anne  to  sap  thy  site  conspired,  — 

The  rest  is  known  ! 

Holy  Saint  Patrick,  father  of  our  faith, 

Beloved  of  God ! 
Shield  thy  dear  Church  from  the  impending  scaith, 

Or,  if  the  rod 
Must  scourge  it  yet  again,  inspire  and  raise 

To  emprise  high 
Men  like  the  heroic  race  of  other  days, 

Who  joyed  to  die  ! 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  299 

Fear !  wherefore  should  the  Celtic  people  fear 

Their  Church's  fate  ] 
The  day  is  not  —  the  day  was  never  near  — 

Could  desolate 
The  Destined  Island,  all  whose  seedy  clay 

Is  holy  ground  : 
Its  cross  shall  stand  till  that  predestined  day 

When  Erin's  self  is  drowned. 


THE   IRISH  RAPPAREES. 
CHARLES  GAVAN  DUFFY. 

RIGH  SHEMUS  *  he  has  gone  to  France,  and  left  his  crown 
behind. 

Ill-luck  be  theirs  both  day  and  night  put  runnin'  in  his 
mind ! 

Lord  Lucan  f  followed  after  with  his  Slashers  brave  and  true, 

And  now  the  doleful  keen  is  raised,  "  What  will  poor  Ire- 
land dol 
What  must  poor  Ireland  do  1 

Our  luck,"  they  say,   "  has  gone   to  France,  —  what  can 
poor  Ireland  do  ] " 

0,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  sogers  still, 
For  Rory's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Remy's  on  the  hill, 
And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more  loyal  hearts  than  these ! 
May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the  faithful  Rapparees ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees ! 
The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish  Rapparees  ! 

*  King  James  II.  .    t  Sarsfield. 


300      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

0,  black 's  your  heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and  coulder  than  the  day  ! 
0,  high  's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenagh,  since  Sarsfield  's  gone 

away; 

It 's  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of  long  ago, 
But  hould  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can  strike  a  deadly  blow, 

Can  strike  a  mortal  blow, 

Och  dha  a  Chreesth,  't  is  she  that  still  could  strike  a  deadly 
blow. 

The  master's  bawn,  the  master's  seat,  a  surly  bodagh  fills ; 

The  master's  son,  an  outlawed  man,  is  riding  on  the  hills. 

But  God  be  praised  that  round  him  throng,  as  thick  as  sum- 
mer bees, 

The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  wall,  —  his  loyal  Rap- 

parees, 
His  lovin'  Rapparees. 

Who  dare  say  no  to  Rory  Oge  with  all  his  Rapparees  1 

Black  Billy  Grimes  of  Latnamard,  he  racked  us  long  and  sore  : 

God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke  !  —  we  '11  never  see  them 
more ! 

But  I  '11  go  bail  he  '11  break  no  more,  while  Truagh  has  gal- 
lows-trees ; 

For  why,  —  he  met  one  lonesome  night  the  angry  Rapparees, 
The  fearless  Rapparees,  — 

They  never  sin  no  more,  my  boys,  who  cross  the  Rapparees ! 

Now  Sassenagh  and  Cromweller,  take  heed  of  what  I  say, 
Keep  down  your  black  and  angry  looks  that  scorn  us  night 

and  day ! 

For  there  's  a  just  and  wrathful  Judge  that  every  action  sees, 
.    And  He'll  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong,  the  faithful 

Rapparees ! 

The  fearless  Rapparees ! 
The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield's  side,  the  roving  Rapparees ! 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  301 

WISHES  AND  WISHES. 
FRANCIS  DAVIS. 

0,  KNOW  ye  the  wish  of  the  true,  the  true  1 
0,  know  ye  the  wish  of  the  true  ] 

JT  is  to  see  the  slave's  hand 

Whirling  liberty's  brand, 
As  its  toil-nurtured  muscles  could  do, 
And  the  wide-world's  oppressors  in  view  : 
God  ripen  the  wish  of  the  true  ! 

Then  hurrah  for  the  wish  of  the  true,  the  true  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  wish  of  the  true  ! 

And  another  hurrah 

For  the  fast-coming  day 
When  the  many  shall  preach  to  the  few 
A  gospel  as  pure  as  the  dew  ! 
O,  there  's  hope  in  that  wish  of  the  true  ! 

0,  know  ye  the  wish  of  the  proud,  the  proud  ? 
0,  know  ye  the  wish  of  the  proud  1 

'T  is  to  empty  their  veins, 

'Mid  the  clashing  of  chains,  — 
Ay,  the  veins  of  their  heart  if  allowed. 
So  the  neck  of  oppression  be  bowed, 
What  a  holy  wish  that  of  the  proud ! 

Then  hurrah  for  the  wish  of  the  brave,  the  brave  ! 
Hurrah  for  the  wish  of  the  brave ! 

And  hurrah  for  the  hand 

And  the  casque-cleaving  brand, 
That  the  rights  of  a  nation  can  save, 
Or  redeem  by  its  world-lightening  wave  : 
Heaven  bless  the  broad  brand  of  the  brave ! 


302      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

NANNY. 
FRANCIS  DAVIS. 

0  FOR  an  hour  when  the  day  is  breaking 
Down  by  the  shore  when  the  tide  is  making ! 
Fair  as  a  white  cloud  thou,  love,  near  me, 
None  but  the  waves  and  thyself  to  hear  me ! 
O,  to  my  breast  how  these  arms  would  press  thee ! 
Wildly  my  heart  in  its  joy  would  bless  thee  ! 
O,  how  the  soul  thou  hast  won  would  woo  thee, 
Girl  of  the  snow  neck !  closer  to  me  ! 

O  for  an  hour  as  the  day  advances, 

Out  where  the  breeze  on  the  broom-brush  dances, 

Watching  the  lark,  with  the  sun  ray  o'er  us, 

Winging  the  notes  of  his  heaven-taught  chorus  ! 

0,  to  be  there  and  my  love  before  me, 

Soft  as  a  moonbeam  smiling  o'er  me  ! 

Thou  wouldst  but  love,  and  I  would  woo  thee, 

Girl  of  the  dark  eye  !  closer  to  me. 

0  for  an  hour  where  the  sun  first  found  us, 
Out  in  the  eve  with  its  red  sheets  round  us, 
Brushing  the  dew  from  the  gale's  soft  winglets, 
Pearly  and  sweet,  with  thy  long,  dark  ringlets ! 
0,  to  be  there  on  the  sward  beside  thee, 
Telling  my  tale  though  I  know  you  'd  chide  me  ! 
Sweet  were  thy  voice  though  it  should  undo  me, 
Girl  of  the  dark  locks  !  closer  to  me. 

0  for  an  hour  by  night  or  by  day,  love, 

Just  as  the  heavens  and  thou  might  say,  love  ! 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  303 

Far  from  the  stare  of  the  cold-eyed  many, 
Bound  in  the  breath  of  my  dove-souled  Nanny  ! 
0  for  the  pure  chains  that  have  bound  me, 
Warm  from  thy  red  lips  circling  round  me  ! 
0,  in  my  soul,  as  the  light  above  me, 
Queen  of  the  pure  hearts  !  do  I  love  thee  ! 


CLONDALLAGH. 

JOHN  FRAZEB. 

ARE  the  orchards  of  Scurragh 

With  apples  still  bending  1 
Are  the  wheat  ridge  and  furrow 

On  Cappaghneale  blending? 
Let  them  bend,  —  let  them  blend  ! 

Be  they  fruitful  or  fallow, 
A  far  dearer  old  friend 

Is  the  bog  of  Clondallagh. 

Fair  Birr  of  the  fountains, 

Thy  forest  and  river, 
And  miniature  mountains, 

Seem  round  me  forever ; 
But  they  cast  from  the  past 

No  home  memories,  to  hallow 
My  heart  to  the  last, 

Like  the  bog  of  Clondallagh. 

How  sweet  was  my  dreaming 
By  Brosna's  bright  water, 

While  it  dashed  away,  seeming 
A  mountain's  young  daughter ! 


304      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Yet  to  roam  with  its  foam, 
By  the  deep  reach  or  shallow, 

Made  but  brighter  at  home 

The  turf  fires  from  Clondallagh. 

If  whole  days  of  childhood, 

More  mournful  than  merry, 
I  sought  through  the  wild  wood 

Young  bird  or  ripe  berry, 
Some  odd  sprite  or  quaint  wight, 

Some  Sinbad  or  Abdallah, 
Was  my  chase  by  the  light 

Of  bog  fir  from  Clondallagh. 

There  the  wild-duck  and  plover 

Have  felt  me  a  prowler, 
On  their  thin  rushy  cover, 

More  fatal  than  fowler ; 
And  regret  sways  me  yet 

For  the  crash  on  the  callow, 
When  the  matched  hurlers  met 

On  the  plains  of  Clondallagh. 

Yea,  simply  to  measure 

The  moss  with  a  soundless 
Quick  step  was  a  pleasure, 

Strange,  stirring,  and  boundless, 
For  its  spring  seemed  to  fling 

Up  my  foot,  and  to  hallow  ' 
My  spirit  with  wing, 

O'er  the  sward  of  Clondallagh. 

But,  alas  !  in  the  season 
Of  blossoming  gladness 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  305 

May  be  strewed  over  reason 

Rank  seeds  of  vain  sadness  : 
While  a  wild,  wayward  child 

With  a  young  heart,  all  callow, 
It  was  warmed  and  beguiled 

By  dear  Jane  of  Clondallagh. 

On  the  form  with  her  seated 

No  urchin  dare  press  on 
My  place,  while  she  cheated 

Me  into  my  lesson  ! 
But  soon  came  a  fond  claim 

From  a  lover  to  hallow 
His  hearth  with  a  dame 

In  my  Jane  of  Clondallagh. 

When  the  altar  had  risen 

From  Jane  to  divide  me, 
I  seemed  in  a  prison, 

Though  she  still  was  beside  me ; 
And  I  knew  more  the  true 

From  the  love,  false  or  shallow, 
The  farther  I  flew 

From  that  bride,  and  Clondallagh. 

From  the  toils  of  the  city 

My  fancy  long  bore  me, 
To  sue  her  to  pity  • 

The  fate  she  brought  o'er  me  ; 
And  the  dream,  wood  or  stream, 

The  green  fields  and  the  fallow, 
Still  return  like  a  beam, 

From  dear  Jane  of  Cloudallagh ! 
20 


306      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

CAOCH,   THE   PIPER. 

JOHN  KEEGAN. 

ONE  winter's  day  long,  long  ago, 

When  I  was  a  little  fellow, 
A  piper  wandered  to  our  door, 

Gray-headed,  blind,  and  yellow. 
And  0  how  glad  was  my  young  heart, 

Though  earth  and  sky  looked  dreary, 
To  see  the  stranger  and  his  dog, 

Poor  Pinch  and  Caoch  O'Leary  ! 

And  when  he  stowed  away  his  bag 

Crossbarred  with  green  and  yellow, 
I  thought  and  said,  "  In  Ireland's  ground, 

There 's  not  so  fine  a  fellow." 
And  Fineen  Burke  and  Shane  Magee, 

And  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
Rushed  in  with  panting  haste  to  see 

And  welcome  Caoch  O'Leary. 

O,  God  be  with  those  happy  times, 

0,  God  be  with  my  childhood, 
When  I,  bare-headed,  roamed  all  day 

Bird-nesting  in  the  wild  wood  ! 
I  '11  not  forget  those  sunny  hours 

However  years  may  vary ; 
I  '11  not  forget  my  early  friends, 

Nor  honest  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Poor  Caoch  and  Pinch  slept  well  that  night, 
And  in  the  morning  early 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  307 

He  called  me  up  to  hear  him  play 

"  The  wind  that  shakes  the  barley." 
And  then  he  stroked  my  flaxen  hair, 

And  cried,  "  God  mark  my  deary  !  " 
And  how  I  wept  when  he  said,  "  Farewell, 

And  think  of  Caoch  O'Leary  ! " 

And  seasons  came  and  went,  and  still 

Old  Caoch  was  not  forgotten, 
Although  I  thought  him  dead  and  gone, 

And  in  the  cold  clay  rotten ; 
And  often  when  I  walked  and  danced 

With  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
We  spoke  of  childhood's  rosy  hours, 

And  prayed  for  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Well  —  twenty  summers  had  gone  past, 

And  June's  red  sun  was  sinking, 
When  I,  a  man,  sat  by  my  door, 

Of  twenty  sad  things  thinking. 
A  little  dog  came  up  the  way, 

His  gait  was  slow  and  weary, 
And  at  his  tail  a  lame  man  limped, 

'T  was  Pinch  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 

Old  Caoch  !  but  ah  !  how  woe-begone  ! 

His  form  is  bowed  and  bending, 
His  fleshless  hands  are  stiff  and  wan, 

Ay,  time  is  even  blending 
The  colors  on  his  threadbare  bag, 

And  Pinch  is  twice  as  hairy 
And  thin-spare  as  when  first  I  saw 

Himself  and  Caoch  O'Leary. 


308      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  God's  blessing  here  ! "  the  wanderer  cried, 

"Far,  far  be  hell,  black  viper; 
Does  anybody  hereabouts 

Remember  Caoch,  the  piper  1 " 
With  swelling  heart  I  grasped  his  hand ; 

The  old  man  murmured,  "  Deary, 
Are  you  the  silken-headed  child 

That  loved  poor  Caoch  O'Leary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ! "  I  said.    The  wanderer  wept 

As  if  his  heart  was  breaking ; 
"And  where,  avic  machree"  *  he  said, 

"  Is  all  the  merry-making 
I  found  here  twenty  years  ago  1 " 

"  My  tale,"  I  sighed,  "  might  weary  : 
Enough  to  say,  there  's  none  but  me 

To  welcome  Caoch  O'Leary." 

"  Vo,  vo,  vo  !  "  the  old  man  cried, 

And  wrung  his  hands  in  sorrow ; 
"  Pray  lead  me  in,  astore  machree, 

And  I  '11  go  home  to-morrow. 
My  peace  is  made,  I  '11  calmly  leave 

This  world  so  cold  and  dreary, 
And  you  shall  keep  my  pipes  and  dog. 

And  pray  for  Caoch  O'Leary." 

With  Pinch  I  watched  his  bed  that  night ; 

Next  day  his  wish  was  granted,  — 
He  died,  and  Father  James  was  brought, 

And  the  requiem  mass  was  chanted. 
The  neighbors  came  ;  —  we  dug  his  grave, 

Near  Eily,  Kate,  and  Mary, 
And  there  he  sleeps  his  last  sweet  sleep,  — 

God  rest  you,  Caoch  O'Leary  ! 

*  Vic  ma  chree,  Son  of  my  heart. 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  309 

THE   EXODUS. 
LADY  W.  R.  WILDE. 

"  A  MILLION  a  decade  ! "    Calmly  and  cold 

The  units  are  read  by  our  statesmen  sage ; 
Little  they  think  of  a  nation  old, 
Fading  away  from  history's  page,  — 
Outcast  weeds  by  a  desolate  sea,  — 
Fallen  leaves  of  humanity. 

"  A  million  a  decade*"  —  of  human  wrecks,  — 

Corpses  lying  in  fever  sheds,  — 
Corpses  huddled  on  foundering  decks, 

And  shroudless  dead  on  their  rocky  beds ; 
Nerve,  and  muscle,  and  heart,  and  brain, 
Lost  to  Ireland,  —  lost  in  vain. 

"  A  million  a  decade  ! "    Count,  ten  by  ten, 

Column  anoT  line  of  the  record  fair ; 
Each  unit  stands  for  ten  thousand  men, 
Staring  with  blank  dead  eyeballs  there,  — 
Strewn  like  blasted  leaves  on  the  sod, 
Men  that  were  made  in  the  image  of  God. 

"  A  million  a  decade  ! "  and  nothing  more  ; 
The  Csesars  had  less  to  conquer  a  world ; 
And  the  war  for  the  Right  not  yet  begun, 
And  the  banner  of  Freedom  not  yet  unfurled. 
The  soil  is  fed  by  the  weed  that  dies ; 
If  forest  leaves  fall,  yet  they  fertilize. 


310      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  ye,  —  dead,  dead,  not  climbing  the  height, 

Not  clearing  a  path  for  the  future  to  tread,  — 
Not  opening  the  golden  portals  of  light, 

Ere  the  gate  was  choked  by  your  piled-up  dead,  — 
Martyrs  ye,  yet  never  a  name 
Shines  on  the  golden  roll  of  fame. 

Had  ye  rent  one  gyve  of  the  festering  chain, 
Strangling  the  life  of  the  nation's  soul,  — 
Poured  your  life-blood  by  river  and  plain, 

Yet  touched  with  your  dead  hand  freedom's  goal,  - 
Left  of  heroes  one  footprint  more 
On  our  soil,  though  stamped  in  your  gore,  — 

We  could  triumph  while  mourning  the  brave, 

Dead  for  all  that  was  holy  and  just, 
And  write,  through  our  tears,  on  the  grave, 
As  we  flung  down  dust  to  dust, 

"  They  died  for  their  country,  but  led 
Her  up  from  the  sleep  of  the  dead." 

"  A  million  a  decade  !  "    What  does  it  mean  1 

A  nation  dying  of  inner  decay,  — 
A  churchyard  silence  where  life  has  been,  — 
.    The  base  of  the  pyramid  crumbling  away,  — 
A  drift  of  men  gone  over  the  sea, 
A  drift  of  the  dead,  where  men  should  be. 

Was  it  for  this  you  plighted  your  word, 

Crowned  and  crownless  rulers  of  men  ? 
Have  ye  kept  faith  with  your  crucified  Lord, 
And  fed  His  sheep  till  he  comes  again  ? 
Or  fled  like  hireling  shepherds  away, 
Leaving  the  fold  the  gaunt  wolf's  prey  1 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  311 

Have  ye  given  of  your  purple  to  cover  1 
Have  ye  given  of  your  gold  to  cheer  1 
Have  ye  given  of  your  love,  as  a  lover 
Might  cherish  the  bride  he  held  dear1? 
Broken  the  sacrament  bread  to  feed 
Souls  and  bodies  in  uttermost  need  1 

Ye  stand  at  the  judgment-bar  to-day, 

The  angels  are  counting  the  dead-roll  too  : 
Have  ye  trod  in  the  pure  and  perfect  way, 
And  ru&d  for  God  as  the  crowned  should  do  1 
Count  our  dead  !  —  before  angels  and  men, 
You  're  judged  and  doomed  by  the  statist's  pen. 


THE  MEMORY  OF  NINETY-EIGHT. 

This  spirited  song  has  been  credited  to  Professor  John  K.  Ingram  of 
Trinity  College,  but  I  believe  not  publicly  acknowledged. 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  1 
When  cowards  mark  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  in  shame  ? 
He  's  all  a  knave,  or  half  a  slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 
But  a  true  man  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few ; 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland  too. 


312       THE   POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

All,  all  are  gone ;  but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died,  — 
All  true  men  like  you,  men, 
-    Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 
But  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Across  the  Atlantic  foam,  v 

In  true  men  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit 's  still  at  home. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  will  start 
Of  true  men  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right ! 

They  fell  and  passed  away ; 
But  true  men  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here 's  their  memory,  —  may  it  be 
For  us  a  guiding  light, 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  313 

To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 
Though  good  or  ill  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate  j 
And  true  men  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 


DEAR  LAND. 

ANON. 

WHEN  comes  the  day  all  hearts  to  weigh, 

If  stanch  they  be  or  vile, 
Shall  we  forget  the  sacred  debt 

We  owe  our  mother  isle  ? 
My  native  heath  is  brown  beneath, 

My  native  waters  blue  ; 
But  crimson  red  o'er  both  shall  spread 

Ere  I  am  false  to  you, 

Dear  land, 

Ere  I  am  false  to  you. 

When  I  behold  your  mountains  bold, 

Your  noble  lakes  and  streams, 
A  mingled  tide  of  grief  and  pride 

Within  my  bosom  teems. 
I  think  of  all  your  long,  dark  jthrall, 

Your  martyrs  brave  and  true, 
And  dash  apart  the  tears  that  start. 

We  must  not  weep  for  you, 
Dear  land, 

We  must  not  weep  for  you. 


314      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

My  grandsire  died,  his  home  beside ; 

They  seized  and  hanged  him  there  ! 
His  only  crime,  in  evil  time, 

Your  hallowed  green  to  wear. 
Across  the  main  his  brothers  twain 

Were  sent  to  pine  and  rue ; 
And  still  they  turned,  with  hearts  that  burned 

In  hopeless  love  for  you, 

Dear  land, 

In  hopeless  love  for  you. 

My  boyish  ear  still  clung  to  hear 

Of  Erin's  pride  of  yore, 
Ere  Norman  foot  had  dared  pollute 

Her  independent  shore,  — 
Of  chiefs  long  dead,  who  rose  to  head 

Some  gallant  patriot  few, — 
Till  all  my  aim  on  earth  became 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you, 
Dear  land, 

To  strike  one  blow  for  you. 

What  path  is  best  your  rights  to  wrest, 

Let  other  heads  divine ; 
By  work  or  word,  with  voice  or  sword, 

To  follow  them  be  mine. 
The  heart  that  zeal  and  hatred  steel, 

No  terrors  can  subdue ; 
If  death  should  come,  that  martyrdom 

Were  sweet  endured  for  you, 
Dear  land, 

Were  sweet  endured  for  you. 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  315 

GATE   OF   ARAGLEN. 

DOMHNALL  GLEANNACH.* 

WHEN  first  I  saw  thee,  Gate, 
That  summer  evening  late, 
Down  at  the  orchard  gate 

Of  Araglen, 

I  thought  I  ne'er  before 
Saw  one  so  fair,  a-stor, 
I  feared  I  'd  never  more 

See  thee  again. 
I  stopped  and  gazed  at  thee ; 
My  footfall,  luckily, 
Reached  not  thy  ear,  though  we 

Stood  there  so  near ; 
While  from  thy  lips  a  strain, 
Soft  as  the  summer  rain, 
Sad  as  a  lover's  pain, 

Fell  on  my  ear. 

I  've  heard  the  lark  in  June, 
The  harp's  wild  plaintive  tune, 
The  thrush,  that  aye  too  soon 

Gives  o'er  his  strain. 
I  've  heard  in  Jiushed  delight 
The  mellow  horn  at  night 
Waking  the  echoes  light 

Of  wild  Loch  Lene. 
But  neither  echoing  horn, 
Nor  thrash  upon  the  thorn, 
Nor  lark  in  early  morn, 

Hymning  in  air, 
*  Domhnall  Gleannach  was  the  rum  deplume  of  Denny  Lane,  of  Cork. 


316   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Nor  harper's  lay  divine, 
E'er  witched  this  heart  of  mine 
Like  that  sweet  voice  of  thine, 
That  evening  there. 

And  when  some  rustling,  dear, 

Fell  on  thy  listening  ear, 

You  thought  your  brother  near, 

And  named  his  name, 
I  could  not  answer,  —  though, 
As  luck  would  have  it  so, 
His  name  and  mine  you  know 

Were  both  the  same. 
Hearing  no  answering  sound, 
You  glanced  in  doubt  around, 
With  timid  look,  and  found 

It  was  not  he. 
Turning  away  your  head 
And  blushing  rosy  red, 
Like  a  wild  fawn  you  fled 

Far,  far  from  me. 

The  swan  upon  the  lake, 
The  wild  rose  in  the  brake, 
The  golden  clouds  that  make 

The  west  their  home, 
The  wild  ash  by  the  stream, 
The  full  moon's  silver  beam, 
The  evening  star's  soft  gleam 

Shining  alone, 
The  lily  robed  in  white,  — 
All,  all  are  fair  and  bright ; 
But  ne'er  on  earth  was  sight 

So  bright,  so  fair, 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  317 

As  that  one  glimpse  of  thee 
That  I  caught  then,  ma  chree,  — 
It  stole  my  heart  from  me, 
That  evening  there. 

And  now  you  're  mine  alone, 
That  heart  is  all  mine  own, 
That  heart  that  ne'er  hath  known 

A  flame  before, 
That  form  of  mould  divine, 
That  snowy  hand  of  thine, 
Those  locks  of  gold  are  mine 

Forevermore. 
Was  ever  lover  seen, 
As  blest  as  thine,  Caitlin  ? 
Hath  ever  lover  been 

More  fond,  more  true  1 
Thine  is  my  every  vow  j 
Forever  dear  as  now ; 
Queen  of  my  heart  be  thou, 

My  colleen 


OURSELVES  ALONE. 

ANON. 

THE  work  that  should  to-day  be  wrought, 

Defer  not  till  to-morrow ; 
The  help  that  should  within  be  sought, 

Scorn  from  without  to  borrow. 
Old  maxims  these,  —  yet  stout  and  true,  - 

They  speak  in  trumpet  tone, 

*  Colleen  rhu ,  Red  girl. 


318      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

To  do  at  once  what  is  to  do, 
And  trust  ourselves  alone. 

Too  long  our  Irish  hearts  we  schooled, 

In  patient  hope  to  bide ; 
By  dreams  of  English  justice  fooled, 

And  English  tongues  that  lied. 
That  hour  of  weak  delusion  's  past, 

The  empty  dream  has  flown ; 
Our  hope  and  strength  we  find  at  last 

Is  in  ourselves  alone. 

Ay,  bitter  hate  or  cold  neglect, 

Or  lukewarm  love  at  best, 
Is  all  we  found  or  can  expect, 

We  aliens  of  the  West. 
No  friend  beyond  her  own  green  shore 

Can  Erin  truly  own ; 
Yet  stronger  is  her  trust  therefore 

In  her  brave  sons  alone. 

Remember  when  our  lot  was  worse, 

Sunk,  trampled  to  the  dust : 
'T  was  long  our  weakness  and  our  curse 

In  stranger  aid  to  trust, 
And  if,  at  length,  we  proudly  trod 

On  bigot  laws  o'erthrown, 
Who  won  that  struggle  1     Under  God     t 

Ourselves,  ourselves  alone. 

0,  let  its  memory  be  enshrined 

In  Ireland's  heart  forever ; 
It  proves  a  banded  people's  mind 

Must  win  in  just  endeavor ; 


THE   POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  319 

It  shows  how  wicked  to  despair, 

How  weak  to  idly  groan  : 
If  ills  at  others'  hands  you  bear, 

The  cure  is  in  your  own. 

The  foolish  word  "  impossible  " 

At  once,  for  aye,  disdain ; 
No  power  can  bar  a  people's  will 

A  people's  right  to  gain. 
Be  bold,  united,  firmly  set, 

Nor  flinch  in  word  or  tone,  — 
We  '11  be  a  glorious  nation  yet, 

Redeemed,  —  erect,  —  alone  ! 


PADDIES    EVERMORE. 

ANON. 

THE  hour  is  past  to  fawn  and  crouch 

As  suppliants  for  our  right ; 
Let  word  and  deed  unshrinking  vouch 

The  banded  millions'  might ; 
Let  them  who  scorned  the  fountain  rill 

Now  dread  the  torrent's  roar, 
And  hear  our  echoed  chorus  still, 

We  're  Paddies  evermore  ! 

What  though  they  menace  suffering  men, 
Their  threats  and  them  despise ; 

Or  promise  justice  once  again,  — 
We  know  their  words  are  lies. 

We  stand  resolved  those  rights  to  claim 
They  robbed  us  of  before, 


320      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Our  own  dear  nation  and  our  name 
As  Paddies,  and  no  more. 

Look  round,  —  the  Frenchman  governs  France, 

The  Spaniards  rule  in  Spain, 
The  gallant  Pole  but  waits  his  chance 

To  break  the  Russian  chain ; 
The  strife  for  freedom  here  begun 

We  never  will  give  o'er, 
Nor  own  a  land  on  earth  but  one, — 

We  're  Paddies,  and  no  more. 

That  strong  and  single  love  to  crush, 

The  tyrant  ever  tried ; 
A  fount  it  was,  whose  loving  gush 

His  hated  arts  defied. 
JT  is  fresh  as  when  his  foot  accursed 

Was  planted  on  our  shore, 
And  now  and  still  as  from  the  first 

We  're  Paddies  evermore. 

What  reck  we  though  six  hundred  years 

Have  o'er  our  thraldom  rolled  1 
The  soul  that  roused  O'Nial's  spears 

Still  lives  as  true  and  bold ; 
The  tide  of  foreign  power  to  stem 

Our  fathers  bled  of  yore, 
And  we  stand  here  to-day,  like  them, 

True  Paddies  evermore. 

Where 's  our  allegiance  1    With  the  land 

For  which  they  nobly  died. 
Our  duty  ?     By  our  cause  to  stand 

Whatever  chance  betide. 


THE   POETS   OF   "  THE  NATION."  321 

Our  cherished  hope  ]     To  heal  the  woes 

That  rankle  at  her  core. 
Our  scorn  and  hatred  ?     To  our  foes 

Now  and  forevermore. 

The  hour  is  past  to  fawn  or  crouch 

As  suppliants  for  our  right ; 
Let  word  and  deed  unshrinking  vouch 

The  banded  millions'  might ; 
Let  them  who  scorned  the  fountain  rill 

Now  dread  the  torrent's  roar, 
And  hear  our  echoed  chorus  still, 

We  're  Paddies  evermore  ! 


THE   HOLY  WELL. 

.    ANON.     "  SULMALLA." 

'T  WAS  a  very  lonely  spot, 

With  beech-trees  o'er  it  drooping ! 

The  water  gleamed  beneath, 
Those  fair  green  branches  lowly  stooping 

A  benediction  seemed  to  breathe, 

And  a  deep  and  rich  green  light 
Within  the  boughs  came  peeping, 

Where  little  insects  dreamed  ; 
A  luscious  calm  on  all  was  sleeping, 

The  sunlight  drowsy  seemed. 

In  that  little  silvery  well 
How  many  tears  fell  heavy  ! 
What  homage  there  was  poured ! 
21 


322      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

To  Mary  sweet  how  many  an  Ave 
Sought  for  her  saving  word ! 

I  strayed  one  evening  calm 
To  this  low,  gentle  water, 

The  Virgin  there  might  be  : 
So  holy  looked  it,  you  'd  have  thought  her 

Guarding  it  tenderly. 

When,  from  the  silence  soft, 
Some  one  I  heard  a  praying,  — 

A  poor  "  dark  "  girl  was  she ; 
Upon  her  bare  knees  she  was  swaying, 

Telling  her  rosary. 

O  that  little  maiden  blind, 
Fair-haired  she  was,  and  slender; 

Her  sad  smile  lit  the  place ; 
Her  blue  cloak-hood  had  fallen,  and  tender 

'Neath  it  gleamed  her  face. 

"  She  the  vah  !  "  *  she  murmuring  said, 
"  Queen  of  power  and  meekness, 

0,  let  me  see  the  light ! 
My  mother  droops  with  grief  and  sickness,  — 

For  her  sake,  give  me  sight ! 

"  0,  my  weeny  sister 's  gone, 
And  we  're  left  lone  and  pining, 

But  two  in  this  world  wide  ! 
If  I  could  greet  the  fair  sun  shining, 

And  be  her  stay  and  guide  !  " 

You  'd  think  blind  Bridget  saw 
The  face  of  the  Redeemer, 

So  kindly  was  her  air, 

* 
*  She  the  vah  !  Hail  to  thee ! 


THE  POETS  OF  "THE  NATION."  323 

I  thought  that  every  moment  brightly 
She  'd  see  the  heavens  fair. 

Just  like  a  saint,  she  seemed, 
God's  pleasure  waiting  only ; 

I  could  not  help  but  weep, 
And  join  her  in  that  shrine  so  lonely 

Breathing  petitions  deep. 


TIPPERARY. 

ANON. 

WERE  you  ever  in  sweet  Tipperary,  where  the  fields  are  so 

sunny  and  green, 
And  the  heath-brown  Slieve-bloom  and  the  Galtees  look  down 

with  so  proud  a  mien  1 
'Tis  there  you  would  see  more   beauty  than  is  on  Irish 

ground : 
God  bless  you,  my  sweet  Tipperary,  for  where  can  your 

match  be  found  ? 

They  say  that  your  hand  is  fearful,  that  darkness  is  in  your 

eye; 

But  I  '11  not  let  them  dare  to  talk  so  bitter  and  black  a  lie. 
0,  no,  acushla  storin  !  bright,  bright  and  warm  are  you, 
With  hearts  as  bold  as  the  men  of  old  to  yourselves  and  your 

country  true. 

And  when  there  is  gloom  upon  you,  bid  them  think  who  has 

brought  it  there. 
Sure  a  frown  or  a  word  of  hatred  was  not  made  for  your  face 

so  fair ; 


324   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

You  Jve  a  hand  for  the  grasp  of  friendship,  another  to  make 

them  quake, 
And  they  're  welcome  to  whichsoever  it  pleases  them  most  to 

take. 

Shall  our  homes,  like  the  huts  of  Connaught,  be  crumbled 

before  our  eyes  1 
Shall  we  fly,  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  from  all  that  we  love 

and  prize  1 
No,  by  those  who  were  here  before  us,  no  churl  shall  our 

tyrant  be; 
Our  land  it  is  theirs  by  plunder,  but  by  Brigid,  ourselves  are 

free. 

No,  we  do  not  forget  that  greatness  did  once  to  sweet  Erin 

belong; 

No  treason  or  craven  spirit  was  ever  our  race  among ; 
And  no  frown  or  no  word  of  hatred  we  give,  but  to  pay  them 

back; 
In  evil  we  only  follow  our  enemies'  darksome  track. 

0,  come  for  a  while  among  us,  and  give  us  the  friendly  hand, 
And  you  '11  see  that  old  Tipperary  is  a  loving  and  gladsome 

land  I 
From  Upper  to  Lower  Ormond  bright  welcomes  and  smiles 

will  spring,  — 
On  the  plains  of  Tipperary  the  stranger  is  like  a  king. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN. 


JAMES  CLAEENCE  MANGAN  is  better  known  to  the 
general  public  than  many  of  the  modern  Irish  poets, 
from  his  success  in  translating  German  poetry,  in  which, 
with  much  inequality,  he  may  be  fairly  said  to  have  sur- 
passed all  but  a  few  of  the  many  who  have  undertaken  the 
same  task.  In  many  respects,  both  in  life  and  genius,  Man- 
gan  bears  a  resemblance  to  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and,  if  he  did  not 
achieve  a  single  marked  success  like  "  The  Raven,"  his  poeti- 
cal faculty  was  of  the  same  sombre  sort,  and  his  command 
of  original  and  musical  rhythm  almost  equally  great.  He 
was  born  in  Dublin  in  1803,  his  father  being  a  small  shop- 
keeper to  the  poor  inhabitants  of  the  lanes  surrounding  Fish- 
amble  Street.  He  received  a  common  school  education,  and 
in  his  fifteenth  year  was  entered  an  apprentice  in  a  solicitor's 
office,  where  he  remained  for  eight  or  nine  years,  being  the 
main  support  of  the  family,  his  father  having  failed  in  his 
petty  trade.  The  nature  of  the  employment,  or  some  circum- 
stances connected  with  the  office,  were  particularly  disagreea- 
ble, and  his  allusions  to  it  afterward  were  as  of  a  degrading 
servitude.  At  this  time,  according  to  the  biography  by  John 
Mitchell  prefixed  to  the  American  edition  of  his  poems,  he 
was  disappointed  in  love,  having  been  admitted  to  the  do- 
mestic circle  of  a  family  above  his  station,  in  which  there 
were  three  beautiful  sisters.  By  one  of  these  he  was  en- 
couraged and  nattered,  until  the  time  came  for  him  to  be 


326       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

disillusioned  and  thrown  off.  The  shock  disturbed  all  his 
relations  with  life,  and  for  a  period  of  three  or  four  years  he 
disappeared  in  a  gulf  of  despairing  dissipation,  from  which 
he  emerged  broken  in  health,  withered,  and  hopeless.  The 
change  in  his  physical  appearance  was  that  from  a  youth  to 
a  prematurely  old  man,  with  pallid  face  and  hair  turned  to  a 
bleached  white. 

In  1830  he  first  began  contributing  translations  to  the 
Dublin  Penny  Journal  and  other  periodicals,  and,  his  acquire- 
ments having  been  made  manifest,  he  was  assisted  by  Dr. 
Petrie,  the  accomplished  Irish  scholar,  and  Dr.  Anster,  one 
of  the  innumerable  translators  of  "  Faust,"  to  a  position  in 
the  Trinity  College  library,  where  he  was  employed  in  the 
work  of  preparing  a  new  catalogue.  Here  he  remained  for  the 
rest  of  his  life,  buried  in  books,  and  having  very  little  com- 
munication with  the  world,  avoiding  all  attempts  to  draw 
him  into  social  or  literary  intercourse.  He  continued  to 
support  his  family  of  a  mother  and  sister  out  of  his  meagre 
earnings,  and,  beside  his  translations  from  the  German,  con- 
tributed to  the  Dublin  University  Magazine,  and  was  em- 
ployed by  John  O'Daly,  a  publisher  and  Irish  scholar,  to 
translate  a  volume  of  Irish  poetry.  He  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  language  and  was  supplied  with  a  literal  prose  trans- 
lation, which  he  versified.  In  his  dreaming  and  secluded 
way  he  was  an  ardent  nationalist,  and  wrote  some  odes  for 
"  The  Nation,"  which  were  in  strong  contrast  in  style  to  the 
popular  vein  of  poetry  of  Davis  and  his  associates.  He  also 
followed  John  Mitchell  and  the  extremists  of  the  Young 
Ireland  party  in  their  secession  from  the  Nation,  and  estab- 
lishment of  the  still  more  radical  "  United  Irishman."  It  is 
needless  to  say  that,  on  account  of  his  health,  he  was  not  an 
active  revolutionist,  although  he  chivalrously  wrote  a  letter 
of  indorsement  to  Mitchell,  when  the  "United  Irishman" 
was  on  the  eve  of  suppression.  He  had  become  addicted  to 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGTAN.  327 

opium  during  his  first  disappearance  from  the  world,  and 
throughout  his  later  life  was  liable  to  sudden  disappearances, 
in  which  he  would  be  lost  for  weeks  in  a  solitary  debauch  in 
the  poorest  resorts  of  drunkenness,  and  be  found  in  the  very 
gutters.  All  efforts  to  restrain  him  from  these  despairing 
sinkings  into  the  indulgence  of  his  appetite,  or  to  induce 
him  to  mingle  with  the  world,  were  vain.  He  refused  all 
assistance,  and  with  the  exception  of  Joseph  Brennan,  one  of 
the  younger  members  of  the  Young  Ireland  party,  he  was 
almost  without  intimate  friend  or  associate.  In  1849,  after 
one  of  his  periodical  debauches,  he  was  found,  sick  of  cholera, 
in  an  obscure  house  in  Bride  Street,  and  was  removed  to  the 
Meath  hospital,  where  he  died,  in  a  measure  from  the  effects 
of  continued  alcoholism  and  abstinence  from  food.  His  last 
hours  were  attended  by  the  Rev.  C.  P.  Meehan,  a  priest  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  of  which  he  was  nominally  a  member. 
His  remains  lie  in  Glasnevin  cemetery. 

In  person  Mangan  was  small  and  spare,  with  regular  and 
classic  features,  but  intensely  pallid,  lustrous  blue  eyes,  and 
prematurely  white  hair.  His  garments  were  usually  attenu- 
ated by  poverty,  and  he  walked  the  streets  with  an  utterly 
despondent  and  abstracted  air. 

His  poetry  is  what  might  be  expected  from  the  circum- 
stances of  a  life  so  hopeless  and  abstracted.  Much  of  his 
translating  was  mere  hack-work,  in  which  he  simply  rendered 
the  original  into  the  baldest  and  most  mechanical  versifica- 
tion ;  but  at  times  he  reached  a  happy  felicity  of  translation, 
and  even  added  a  beauty  and  strength  to  such  minor  poets 
as  Kerner  and  others.  In  his  translations  from  the  Irish 
he  labored  under  the  disadvantage  of  not  being  infused  with 
the  style,  language,"  and  peculiar  forms  of  expression  of  Cel- 
tic literature,  such  as  make,  the  translations  of  Sir  Sam- 
uel Ferguson  such  complete  reproductions  of  the  original; 
but  he  was  thoroughly  in  sympathy  with  the  spirit  of  woe 


328   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

and  lamentation  in  Celtic  poetry,  and  some  of  his  odes 
and  lamentations  are  not  only  most  powerful  and  vivid,  but 
thoroughly  representative  from  "sympathy  in  thought  and 
style,  if  not  from  saturation  with  Celtic  archaeology.  His 
original  poems  are  quite  few  in  number,  but  display  the 
same  command  of  original  and  powerful  rhythm  and  impres- 
sive diction  of  his  translations,  while  their  spirit  of  hope- 
lessness is  beyond  any  artificial  pathos.  There  is  hardly 
anything  more  profoundly  affecting  in  English  literature  than 
such  a  poem  as  "  The  Nameless  One,"  read  with  a  knowledge 
of  the  life  of  which  it  was  a  confession ;  and  it  is  the  more 
impressive  that  it  has  no  bitterness  nor  maudlin  arraignment 
of  fortune,  such  as  is  apparent  in  much  of  the  poetry  of 
genius  wrecked  by  its  own  errors.  His  political  odes  were 
those  of  a  dreamer  of  noble  things  for  his  country,  rather 
than  of  practical  knowledge  or  faith,  notwithstanding  their 
exalted  and  noble  sentiment,  and  in  all  things  except  his 
personal  misery  he  was  not  of  the  actual  life  of  the  world. 


THE   NAMELESS   ONE. 

ROLL  forth,  my  song,  like  the  rushing  river, 

That  sweeps  along  to  the  mighty  sea ; 
God  will  inspire  me  while  I  deliver 
My  soul  of  thee  ! 

Tell  thou  the  world,  when  my  bones  lie  whitening, 

'Amid  the  last  homes  of  youth  and  eld, 
That  there  was  once  one  whose  veins  ran  lightning 
No  eye  beheld. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN.  329 

Tell  how  his  boyhood  was  one  drear  night-hour, 

How  shone  for  him,  through  his  griefs  and  gloom, 
No  star  of  all  Heaven  sends  to  light  our 
Path  to  the  tomb. 

Roll  on,  my  song,  and  to  after  ages 

Tell  how,  disdaining  all  earth  can  give, 
He  would  have  taught  men  from  wisdom's  pages 
The  way  to  live. 

And  tell  how,  trampled,  derided,  hated, 

And  worn  by  weakness,  disease,  and  wrong, 
He  fled  for  shelter  to  God,  who  mated 
His  soul  with  song  ;  — 

With  song,  which  alway,  sublime  or  vapid, 
Flowed  like  a  rill  in  the  morning  beam, 
Perchance  not  deep,  but  intense  and  rapid,  — 
A  mountain  stream. 

Tell  how  this  Nameless,  condemned  for  years  long 

To  herd  with  demons  from  hell  beneath, 
Saw  things  that  made  him,  with  groans  and  tears,  long 
For  even  death. 

Go  on  to  tell  how,  with  genius  wasted, 

Betrayed  in  friendship,  befooled  in  love, 
With  spirit  shipwrecked,  and  young  hopes  blasted, 
He  still,  still  strove,  — 

Till  spent  with  toil,  dreeing  death  for  others, 

And  some  whose  hands  should  have  wrought  for  him, 
(If  children  live  not  for  sires  and  mothers,) 
His  mind  grew  dim,  — 


330      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

And  he  fell  far  through  that  pit  abysmal, 

The  gulf  and  grave  of  Maginn  and  Burns, 
And  pawned  his  soul  for  the  devil's  dismal 
Stock  of  returns ;  — 

But  yet  redeemed  it  in  days  of  darkness, 

And  shapes  and  signs  of  the  final  wrath, 
When  death  in  hideous  and  ghastly  starkness 
Stood  on  his  path. 

And  tell  how  now,  amid  wreck,  and  sorrow, 

And  want,  and  sickness,  and  houseless  nights, 
He  bides  in  calmness  the  silent  morrow 
That  no  ray  lights. 

And  lives  he  still,  then  1    Yes  !    Old  and  hoary 

At  thirty-nine  from  despair  and  woe, 
He  lives,  enduring  what  future  story 
Will  never  know. 

Him  grant  a  grave  to,  ye  pitying  noble, 

Deep  in  your  bosoms  !     There  let  him  dwell ! 
He,  too,  had  tears  for  all  souls  in  trouble, 
Here  and  in  hell. 


SOUL   AND   COUNTRY. 

ARISE  !  my  slumbering  soul,  arise  ! 
And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do ; 

The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies ; 
A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free 
And  live  anew. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN.  331 

The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born 
That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base. 
Immortal  freedom's  thunder  horn, 
As  yet,  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 
To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul,  and  see  and  say 
If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here  j 
The  will  to  smite,  the  power  to  slay, 
Abound  in  every  heart  and  hand, 

Afar,  anear. 

But,  God,  must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 
Pierce  mind  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year  ? 

O,  dream  it  not ! 

It  sounds  a  false,  blaspheming  word, 
Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear,  — 
And  ill  begot. 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  naught ; 
To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 

And  works  of  love,  — 
A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought, 
And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads,  — 

This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 

The  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul, 

Of  Washington ; 

Truth's  name  alone  shall  man  adore, 
Long  as  the  waves  of  time  shall  roll 
Henceforward  on ! 

My  countrymen  !  my  words  are  weak, 
My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark, 
My  heart  is  chill, 


332      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 
To  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 

Beseech  your  God,  and  bide  your  hour,  — 
He  cannot,  will  not,  long  be  dumb ; 

Even  now  his  tread 

Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  power ; 
And  coming,  trust  me,  it  will  come, 
Else  were  He  dead. 


A  VISION  OF  CONNAUGHT  IN  THE  THIRTEENTH- 
CENTURY. 

["Et  moi,  j'ai  ete  aussi  en  Arcadie."  —  "And  I,  I  too,  have  been  a 
dreamer."  —  Inscription  on  a,  Painting  by  Poussin.] 

This  ode  is  founded  on  a  passage  in  an  ancient  Irish  chronicle,  but 
the  original  is  little  more  than  a  suggestion  for  the  poem. 

I  WALKED  entranced 

Through  a  land  of  Morn ; 
The  sun,  with  wondrous  excess  of  light, 
Shone  down  and  glanced 

Over  seas  of  corn, 

And  lustrous  gardens  aleft  and  right. 
Even  in  the  clime 

Of  resplendent  Spain 
Beams  no  such  sun  upon  such  a  land ; 
But  it  was  the  time, 

'T  was  in  the  reign, 
Of  Cahal-Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand. 

Anon  stood  nigh 

By  my  side  a  man 
Of  princely  aspect  and  port  sublime. 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN.  333 

Him  queried  I : 

"  0,  my  Lord  and  Khan, 
What  clime  is  this,  and  what  golden  time  1 " 
When  he  :  "  The  clime 
Is  a  clime  to  praise, 

The  clime  is  Erin's,  the  green  and  bland ; 
And  it  is  the  time, 

These  be  the  days, 
Of  Cahal-Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand ! " 

Then  saw  I  thrones 
And  circling  fires, 

And  a  Dome  rose  near  me  as  by  a  spell, 
Whence  flowed  the  tones 

Of  silver  lyres, 

And  many  voices  in  wreathed  swell ; 
And  their  thrilling  chime 

Fell  on  mine  ears 

As  the  heavenly  hymn  of  an  angel  band  : 
"  It  is  now  the  time, 

These  be  the  years, 
Of  Cahal-Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand  ! " 

I  sought  the  hall, 

And,  behold !  a  change 
From  light  to  darkness,  from  joy  to  woe ; 
King,  nobles,  all, 

Looked  aghast  and  strange ; 
The  minstrel  group  sat  in  dumbest  show. 
Had  some  great  crime 

Wrought  this  dread  amaze, 
This  terror  ]     None  seemed  to  understand. 
'T  was  then  the  time, 

We  were  in  the  days, 
Of  Cahal-Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand. 


334      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

I  again  walked  forth ; 

But  lo !  the  sky 

Showed  flecked  with  blood,  and  an  alien  sun 
Glared  from  the  North, 

And  there  stood  on  high, 
Amid  his  shorn  beams,  a  SKELETON  ! 
It  was  by  the  stream 

Of  the  castled  Maine, 
One  autumn  eve,  in  the  Teuton's  land, 
That  I  dreamed  this  dream 

Of  the  time  and  reign 
Of  Cahal-Mor  of  the  Wine-Red  Hand. 


THE   ONE   MYSTERY. 

'T  is  idle ;  we  exhaust  and  squander 

The  glittering  mine  of  thought  in  vain ; 
All-baffled  Reason  cannot  wander 

Beyond  her  chain. 
The  flood  of  life  runs  dark,  —  dark  clouds, 

Make  lampless  night  around  its  shore ; 
The  dead,  where  are  they  1     In  their  shrouds, 
Man  knows  no  more. 

Evoke  the  ancient  and  the  past, 
Will  one  illuming  star  arise  ] 
Or  must  the  film,  from  first  to  last, 

O'erspread  thine  eyes  ? 
When  life,  love,  glory,  beauty,  wither, 
Will  wisdom's  page  or  science'  chart 
Map  out  for  thee  the  region  whither 
Their  shades  depart  1 


JAMES  CLARENCE  MANGAN.  335 

Supposest  thou  the  wondrous  powers 

To  high  imagination  given, 
Pale  types  of  what  shall  yet  be  ours, 

When  earth  is  heaven  1 
When  this  decaying  shell  is  cold, 

0,  sayest  thou  the  soul  shall  climb 
That  magic  mount  she  trod  of  old, 
Ere  childhood's  time  ? 

And  shall  the  sacred  pulse  that  thrilled, 

Thrill  once  again  to  glory's  name  1 
And  shall  the  conquering  love  that  filled 

All  earth  with  flame, 
Reborn,  revived,  renewed,  immortal, 

Resume  his  reign  in  prouder  might, 
A  sun  beyond  the  ebon  portal 
Of  death  and  night1? 

No  more,  no  more,  with  aching  brow, 

And  restless  heart,  and  burning  brain, 
We  ask  the  When,  the  Where,  the  How, 

And  ask  in  vain. 
And  all  philosophy,  all  faith, 

All  earthly,  all  celestial  lore, 
Have  but  one  voice,  which  only  saith, 
Endure,  —  adore ! 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM  has  a  place  in  literature 
beside  that  of  an  Irish  poet ;  but  he  is  one  of  the 
most  powerful  and  national  in  the  list,  and  has  given  the 
world  an  original  phase  of  Irish  poetry.  He  was  born  in 
Ballyshannon,  a  beautiful  little  town  in  the  West  of  Ireland, 
in  18287  His  father  was  a  banker  in  the  town,  and  occu- 
pied a  position  among  the  gentry.  He  was  liberally  edu- 
cated in  Ireland  and  England,  and  his  first  poems  were  pub- 
lished in  "  Household  Words,"  when  conducted  by  Charles 
Dickens,  who  appreciated  his  talents  and  promise ;  and  he 
also  received  kindly  encouragement  from  Leigh  Hunt,  to 
whom  he  dedicated  his  poem  of  "  The  Music-Master."  He 
held  an  appointment  in  the  customs  service  until  1872,  when 
he  resigned  to  succeed  Mr.  James  Anthony  Froude  as  editor 
of  Frazer's  Magazine,  which  he  has  since  resigned.  For  the 
later  part  of  his  life  he  has  been  a  resident  of  London,  and 
an  associate  in  the  most  accomplished  literary  society  of  the 
time,  his  wife,  formerly  Miss  Helen  Patterson,  holding  a  dis- 
tinguished place  as  an  artist.  Since  1864,  he  has  been  in 
the  receipt  of  a  pension  for  his  literary  services.  His  pub- 
lished works  have  been  "Poems,"  issued  in  1850,  and  repub- 
lished  in  Boston;  "Day  and  Night  Songs,"  published  in 
1854;  "  Lawrence  Bloomfi eld,"  first  published  in  successive 
numbers  of  Frazer's  Magazine  and  issued  in  book  form  in 
1869;  and  "Songs  and  Ballads,"  published  in  1877. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  337 

Mr.  Allingham's  Irish  poetry  is  not  national  in  the  politi- 
cal sense  usually  associated  with  the  word,  nor  does  it  deal 
with  themes  of  national  history.  Its  subjects  are  taken  from 
contemporaneous  life,  and  it  depicts  the  beautiful  scenery 
of  the  country,  particularly  of  the  vicinity  of  Ballyshannon, 
sings  the  love-songs  and  lamentations  of  the  peasant  people, 
and  draws  sketches  from  figures  in  Irish  life  of  all  grades. 
His  ballads  and  songs  have  the  pure  simplicity,  the  idiom 
and  the  local  coloring,  the  sweetness  and  the  pathos,  of  peas- 
ant verse  refined  and  vivified  with  a  fine  skill  that  preserves 
their  national  flavor  with  the  highest  poetic  form.  "Lovely 
Mary  Donnelly  "  and  "  The  Girl's  Lamentation  "  are  two  of 
the  most  perfect  specimens  of  genuine  Irish  poetry.  They 
have  touched  the  popular  heart,  as  well  as  moved  the  admi- 
ration of  critics,  and  are  to  be  found  in  the  sheaf  of  popular 
ballads  that  are  the  common  property  of  the  peasantry.  His 
longest  and  most  important  poem  is  "  Lawrence  Bloomfield 
in  Ireland,"  a  descriptive  poem  in  decasyllabic  verse.  It  is 
a  novel  in  poetic  form,  describing  the  scenes  of  national  life 
with  portraits  of  landlords,  priests,  and  peasantry,  and  de- 
picting the  social  gatherings  of  high  and  low  life,  the  eviction, 
the  meeting  in  the  Ribbon  Lodge,  the  wake,  the  Sunday  ser- 
vice, and  all  the  characteristic  scenes  of  national  life.  The 
characters  of  the  landlords  have  all  the  distinctness  and  nat- 
uralness of  those  in  "  Castle  Rackrent,"  and  he  has  given, 
what  Miss  Edgeworth  did  not  attempt  except  incidentally, 
equally  natural  portraits  from  the  peasantry.  The  landscapes 
are  described  with  a  vividness  that  impresses  them  most 
powerfully  upon  the  mind,  and  with  a  faithfulness  as  com- 
plete as  that  of  a  photograph,  while  there  is  a  pathos  and  a 
power  in  the  scenes  from  life,  the  stronger  for  being  restrained 
to  the  literal  transcription  of  incidents  of  ordinary  life,  like 
that  of  Crabbe.  In  fact,  since  "  Nature's  sternest  painter, 
yet  her  best,"  there  has  been  no  English  author  who  is  so 


338      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

vividly  a  painter  of  real  life  as  Mr.  Allingham,  while  his  po- 
etry has  a  grace  and  inward  tenderness  entirely  wanting  to 
the  literal  transcriptions  of  Crabbe.  His  candor  is?  also  com- 
plete, and  his  politics  are  only  to  be  inferred,  as  he  is  equally 
impartial  in  depicting  what  he  considers  the  evils  of  both 
parties.  His  aim  has  been  to  give  a  thoroughly  faithful  por- 
traiture of  existing  society  and  circumstance,  and  the  clearest 
insight  into  and  the  most  vivid  representation  of  contempo- 
rary life  in  Ireland  is  to  be  found  in  "  Lawrence  Bloomfieid," 
not  excepting  Mr.  W.  Steuart  Trench's  "Realities  of  Irish 
Life,"  or  Mr.  Anthony  Trollope's  "MacDermots  of  Bally- 
cloran." 


THE   EVICTION. 

FROM  "LAWRENCE  BLOOMFIELD  IN  IRELAND." 

SMALL  Ballytullagh  was  an  ancient  place, 
Built  in  the  hollow  of  a  rock-strewn  hill, 
A  rugged  fold  of  earth,  but  kindly  still 
To  those  who  lived  there.     Better  there  live  poor 
Than  in  the  monstrous  city's  heart,  be  sure. 
So  low  and  weather-stained  the  walls,  the  thatch 
So  dusk  of  hue,  or  spread  with  mossy  patch, 
'A  stranger  journeying  on  the  distant  road 
Might  hardly  guess  that  human  hearts  abode 
In  those  wild  fields,  save  when  a  smoky  wreath 
Distinguished  from  huge  rocks  above,  beneath, 
Its  huddled  roofs.     A  lane  goes  up  the  hill, 
Crossed  at  one  elbow  by  a  crystal  rill, 
Between  the  stepping-stones  gay  tripping  o'er 
In  shallow  brightness  on  its  gravelly  floor, 
From  crags  above,  with  falls  and  rocky  runs, 
Through  sward  below  in  deep  deliberate  turns, 


WILLIAM  ALLING-HAM.  339 

Where  each  fine  evening  brought  the  boys  to  play 
At  football  or  with  camuns  *  drive  away 
The  whizzing  nagg  f  ;  a  crooked  lane  and  steep, 
Older  than  broad  highways,  you  find  it  creep 
Fenced  in  with  stooping  thorn-trees,  bramble-brakes, 
Tall  edgestones,  gleaming,  gay  as  spotted  snakes, 
With  gold  and  silver  lichen ;  till  it  bends 
Between  the  rock-based,  rough-built  gable  ends, 
To  make  the  street,  if  one  may  call  it  street, 
Where  ducks  and  pigs  in  filthy  forum  meet ; 
A  scrambling,  careless,  tattered  place,  no  doubt, 
Each  cottage  rude  within  doors  as  without.. 

Though  poor  this  hamlet,  sweet  its  rustic  days, 
Secluded  from  the  world's  tumultuous  ways,  — 
When  famine  times  and  fever  times  went  by, 
If  crops  were  good,  provisions  not  too  high ; 
And  well  it  mingled  with  the  varying  sound 
Of  birds  and  rills  and  breezy  waste  around, 
Its  hum  of  housewife's  wheel,  or  farm-cock's  crow, 
Or  whetted  scythe,  or  cattle's  evening  low, 
Or  high-pitched  voice  of  little  girl  or  boy, 
The  sturdy  men  at  work  with  spade  and  loy ; 
The  clothes  spread  out  along  the  stooping  hedge, 
The  tethered  goat  upon  the  rock's  green  ledge, 
The  game,  or  quiet  pipe,  when  toil  was  done, 
The  colleens  at  their  broidery  in  the  sun, 
Skirt  over  head,  or  washing  in  the  brook, 
Or  singing  ballads  round  the  chimney-nook,  — 
For  daily  life's  material  good  enough 
Such  trivial  incidents  and  homely  stuff. 
And  here,  too,  could  those  miracles  befall 
Of  wedding,  new-born  babe,  and  funeral, 
Each  natural  feeling,  every  fancy  rise, 
Touch  common  earth  and  soar  to  mystic  skies. 
s  Camuns,  crooked  sticks.  t  Nagg,  a  wooden  ball. 


340      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Gaze  upon  Oona  of  the  milk-white  hair, 
With  burden  of  a  century  to  bear ; 
The  wonders  and  enchanting  hopes  of  youth, 
The  toils  of  life  and  disappointing  truth, 
Delights  and  cares  that  wives  and  mothers  know, 
The  turns  of  wisdom,  folly,  joy,  and  woe, 
The  gradual  change  of  all  things  year  by  year, 
While  she  to  one  Great  Doorway  still  draws  near,  — 
All  good  and  ill  from  childhood  to  old  age 
For  her  have  moved  on  this  poor  narrow  stage. 
A  cottage  built ;  farm  shifting  hands ;  big  thorn 
By  midnight  tempest  from  its  place  uptorn ; 
The  Church's  rites,  the  stations  and  the  priests ; 
Wakes,  dances,  faction-fights,  and  wedding-feasts ; 
Good,  honest  neighbors ;  ruffians,  crafty  rogues  ; 
The  wild  youth  limping  back  without  his  brogues ; 
The  moneyed  man  returning  from  the  West, 
With  beard  and  golden  watch-chains  on  his  breast ; 
He  that  enlisted  ;  she  that  went  astray ; 
Landlords  and  agents  of  a  former  day  ; 
The  time  of  raging  floods ;  the  twelve  weeks'  frost  ; 
Dear  summers,  and  how  much  their  oatmeal  cost ; 
The  Tullagh  baby-daughters,  baby-sons, 
Grown  up,  grown  gray ;  a  crowd  of  buried  ones  ; 
These  little  bygones  Oona  would  recall 
In  deep-voiced  Gaelic,  —  faltering  now  they  fall, 
Or  on  her  faint  lips  murmur  unaware ; 
And  many  a  time  she  lifts  her  eyes  in  prayer, 
And  many  an  hour  her  placid  spirit  seems 
Content  as  infant  smiling  through  its  dreams, 
In  solemn  trance  of  body  and  of  mind, 
As  though,  its  business  with  the  world  resigned, 
The  soul,  withdrawn  into  a  central  calm, 
Lay  hushed,  in  foretaste  of  immortal  balm. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  341 

That  face,  now  seen  but  seldom,  no  one  saw 

Without  a  touch  of  tenderness  and  awe ; 

And  every  tongue  around  her  feared  to  tell 

The  great  misfortune  worse  than  yet  befell 

In  all  her  length  of  journey.  — When  they  tried 

To  move  her,  "Would  they  take  her  life]"  she  cried, 

At  which  it  rested,  hap  what  happen  might, 

And  scarcely  one,  in  truth,  prepared  for  flight. 

Contempt  of  prudence,  anger  and  despair, 

And  vis  inertice,  kept  them  as  they  were. 

"  God  and  the  world  will  see  it,"  —  so  they  said,  — 

"  Let  all  the  wrong  be  on  the  doer's  head  ! " 

In  early  morning  twilight,  raw  and  chill, 
Damp  vapors  brooding  on  the  barren  hill, 
Through  miles  of  mire,  in  steady,  grave  array, 
Threescore  well-armed  police  pursue  their  way ; 
Each  tall  and  bearded  man  a  rifle  swings, 
And  under  each  great-coat  a  bayonet  clings ; 
The  sheriff  on  his  sturdy  cob  astride 
Talks  with  the  Chief,  who  marches  by  their  side, 
And,  creeping  on  behind  them,  Paudeen  Dhu 
Pretends  his  needful  duty  much,  to  rue. 
Six  big-boned  laborers,  clad  in  common  frieze, 
Walk  in  their  midst,  the  sheriff's  stanch  allies ; 
Six  crowbar  men  from  distant  county  brought,  — 
Orange  and  glorying  in  their  work  't  is  thought, 
But  wrongly,  —  churls  of  Catholics  are  they, 
And  merely  hired  at  half-a-crown  a  day. 

The  hamlet  clustering  on  its  hill  is  seen, 
A  score  of  petty  homesteads,  dark  and  mean ; 
Poor  always,  not  despairing  until  now ; 
Long  used,  as  well  as  poverty  knows  how 
With  life's  oppressive  trifles  to  contend, 
This  day  will  bring  its  history  to  an  end. 


342      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Moveless  and  grim  against  the  cottage  walls 

Lean  a  few  silent  men ;  but  some  one  calls 

Far  off;  and  then  a  child  "without  a  stitch" 

Kuns  out  of  doors,  flies  back  with  piercing  screech, 

And  soon  from  house  to  house  is  heard  the  cry 

Of  female  sorrow  swelling  loud  and  high, 

"Which  makes  the  men  blaspheme  between  their  teeth. 

Meanwhile  o'er  fence  and  watery  field  beneath, 

The  little  army  moves  through  drizzling  rain ; 

A  "Crowbar"  leads  the  sheriff's  nag;  the  lane 

Is  entered,  and  their  plashing  hoofs  draw  near ; 

One  instant,  outcry  holds  its  breath  to  hear ; 

"  Halt ! "  at  the  doors  they  form  in  double  line, 

And  ranks  of  polished  rifles  wetly  shine, 

The  Sheriff's  pained,  but  "  Duty  must  be  done  !  " 
Exhorts  to  quiet  and  the  work 's  begun. 
The  strong  stand  ready ;  now  appear  the  rest, 
Girl,  matron,  grandsire,  baby  on  the  breast, 
And  Rosy 's  thin  face  on  a  pallet  borne ; 
A  motly  concourse,  feeble  and  forlorn. 
One  old  man,  tears  upon  his  wrinkled  cheek, 
Stands  trembling  on  a  threshold,  tries  to  speak, 
But  in  defect  of  any  word  for  this, 
Mutely  upon  the  doorpost  prints  a  kiss, 
Then  passes  out,  forever.     Through  the  crowd 
The  children  run  bewildered,  wailing  loud ; 
At  various  points  the  men  combine  their  aid ; 
And  last  of  all  is  Oona  forth  conveyed, 
Reclined  in  her  accustomed  strawen  chair, 
Her  aged  eyelids  closed,  her  thick  white  hair 
Escaping  from  her  cap ;  she  feels  the  chill, 
Looks  round  and  murmurs,  then  again  is  still. 

Now  bring  the  remnants  of  each  household  fire, 
On  the  wet  ground  the  hissing  coals  expire. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  343 

And  Paudeen  Dhu  with  meekly  dismal  face 
Receives  the  full  possession  of  the  place. 

Whereon  the  sheriff,  "  We  have  legal  hold, 
Return  to  shelter  with  the  sick  and  old. 
Time  shall  be  given ;  and  there  are  carts  below 
If  any  to  the  workhouse  choose  to  go.' 
A  young  man  makes  him  answer,  grave  and  clear, 
"We  're  thankful  to  you,  but  there  's  no  one  here 
Goin'  back  into  them  houses ;  do  your  part. 
Nor  we  won't  trouble  Pigot's  horse  and  cart." 
At  which  name,  rushing  into  the  open  space, 
A  woman  flings  her  hood  from  off  her  face, 
Falls  on  her  knees  upon  the  miry  ground, 
Lifts  hands  and  eyes  and  voice  of  thrilling  sound,  — 
"  Vengeance  of  God  Almighty  fall  on  you, 
James  Pigot !  may  the  poor  man's  curse  pursue, 
The  widow's  and  the  orphan's  curse,  I  pray, 
Hang  heavy  round  you  at  your  dying  day ! " 
Breathless  and  fixed  one  moment  stands  the  crowd 
To  hear  this  malediction  fierce  and  loud. 
Meanwhile  (our  neighbor  Neal  is  busy  there) 
On  steady  poles  he  lifted  Oona's  chair, 
Well  heaped  with  borrowed  mantles ;  gently  bear 
The  sick  girl  in  her  litter,  bed  and  all ; 
Whilst  others  hug  the  children  weak  and  small, 
In  careful  arms,  or  hoist  them  pick-a-back ; 
And  'midst  the  unrelenting  clink  and  thwack 
Of  iron  bar  and  stone,  let  creep  away 
The  sad  procession  from  that  hillside  gray, 
Through  the  slow-falling  rain.     In  three  hours  more 
You  '11  find  where  Ballytullagh  stood  before, 
Mere  shattered  walls,  and  doors  with  useless  latch, 
And  firesides  buried  under  fallen  thatch. 


344      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   GIRL'S   LAMENTATION. 

WITH  grief  and  mourning  I  sit  to  spin ; 
My  love  passed  by,  and  he  did  n't  come  in ; 
He  passes  by  me,  both  day  and  night, . 
And  he  carries  off  my  poor  heart's  delight. 

There  is  a  tavern  in  yonder  town, 
My  love  goes  there  and  he  spends  a  crown  ; 
He  takes  a  strange  girl  upon  his  knee, 
And  never  more  gives  a  thought  of  me. 

Says  he,  "  We  '11  wed  without  loss  of  time, 
And  sure  our  love 's  but  a  little  crime  "  ;  — 
My  apron-string  now  it 's  wearing  short, 
And  my  love  he  seeks  other  girls  to  court. 

0,  with  him  I  'd  go  if  I  had  my  will, 

I  'd  follow  him  barefoot  o'er  rock  and  hill ; 

I  'd  never  once  speak  of  all  my  grief 

If  he  'd  give  me  a  smile  for  my  heart's  relief. 

In  our  wee  garden  the  rose  unfolds, 
With  bachelor's  buttons  and  marigolds; 
I  '11  tie  no  posies  for  dance  or  fair, 
A  willow  twig  is  for  me  to  wear. 

For  a  maid  again  I  can  never  be, 
Till  the  red  rose  blooms  on  the  willow-tree. 
Of  such  a  trouble  I  heard  them  tell, 
And  now  I  know  what  it  means  full  well. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  345 

As  through  the  long  lonesome  night  I  lie, 
I  'd  give  the  world  if  I  might  but  cry ; 
But  I  must  n't  moan  there,  or  raise  my  voice, 
And  the  tears  run  down  without  any  noise. 

And  what,  0,  what  will  my  mother  say  1 
She  '11  wish  her  daughter  was  in  the  clay. 
My  father  will  curse  me  to  my  face ; 
The  neighbors  will  know  of  my  black  disgrace. 

My  sister 's  buried  three  years  come  Lent ; 
But  sure  we  made  far  too  much  lament. 
Beside  her  grave  they  still  say  a  prayer,  — 
I  wish  to  God  it  was  I  was  there. 

The  Candlemas  crosses  hang  near  my  bed ; 
To  look  on  them  puts  me  much  in  dread ; 
They  mark  the  good  time  that 's  gone  and  past ; 
It 's  like  this  year's  one  will  prove  the  last. 

The  oldest  cross  it 's  a  dusty  brown, 
But  the  winter  winds  did  n't  shake  it  down ; 
The  newest  cross  keeps  the  color  bright,  — 
When  the  straw  was  reaping,  my  heart  was  light.* 

The  reapers  rose  with  the  blink  of  morn, 
And  gaily  stocked  up  the  yellow  corn, 
To  call  them  home  to  the  field  I  'd  run, 
Through  the  blowing  breeze  and  the  summer  sun. 

When  the  straw  was  weaving  my  heart  was  glad, 
For  neither  sin  nor  shame  I  had, 

*  In  some  parts  of  Ireland  is  a  custom  of  weaving  a  small  cross  of  straw 
at  Candlemas,  which  is  hung  up  in  a  cottage,  sometimes  over  a  bed.  A  new 
one  is  added  every  year,  and  the  old  are  left  until  they  fall  to  pieces. 


346      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

In  the  barn  where  oat-chaff  was  flying  round, 
And  the  thumping  flails  made  a  pleasant  sound. 

Now  summer  or  winter  to  me  it  Js  one ; 
But  0  for  a  day  like  the  time  that 's  gone ! 
I  'd  little  care  was  it  storm  or  shine, 
If  I  had  but  peace  in  this  heart  of  mine. 

0,  light  and  false  is  a  young  man's  kiss, 
And  a  foolish  girl  gives  her  soul  for  this. 
0,  light  and  short  is  the  young  man's  blame, 
And  a  helpless  girl  has  the  grief  and  shame. 

To  the  river  bank  once  I  thought  to  go, 
And  cast  myself  in  the  stream  below ; 
I  thought  't  would  carry  us  far  out  to  sea, 
Where  they  'd  never  find  my  poor  babe  and  me. 

Sweet  Lord,  forgive  me  that  wicked  mind ! 
You  know  I  used  to  be  well  inclined. 
0,  take  compassion  upon  my  state, 
Because  my  trouble  is  so  very  great ! 

My  head  turns  round  with  the  spinning-wheel, 
And  a  heavy  cloud  at  my  eyes  I  feel. 
But  the  worst  of  all  is  at  my  heart's  core, 
For  my  innocent  days  will  come  back  no  more. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHEAM.  347 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY. 

0,  LOVELY  Mary  Donnelly,  it 's  you  I  love  the  best ; 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you,  I  'd  hardly  see  the  rest. 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be  where  it  will, 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom  before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that 's  flowing  on  a  rock, 
How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are !  and  they  give  me 

many  a  shock. 

Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted  with  a  shower 
Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that  has  me  in  its  power. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eyebrows  lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth  like  a  china  cup ; 
Her  hair  's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty  and  so  fine  ; 
It 's  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gathered  in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  Whitmonday  night  exceeded  all  before ; 
No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was  missing  from  the  floor. 
But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and,  0,  but  she  was  gay ! 
She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  that  took  my  heart  away. 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps  were  so  complete 

The  music  nearly  killed  itself  to  listen  to  her  feet ; 

The  fiddler  moaned  his  blindness,  he  heard  her  so  much 

praised, 
But  blessed  himself  he  was  n't  deaf  when  once  her  voice  she 

raised. 

And  evermore  I  'm  whistling  or  lilting  what  you  sung, 
Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name  beside  my 
tongue ; 


348      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  you  Ve  as  many  sweethearts  as  you  'd  count  on  both 

your  hands, 
And  for  myself  there'  s  not  a  thumb  or  little  finger  stands. 

0,  you  're  the  flower  o'  womankind  in  country  or  in  town  ! 

The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I  'm  cast  down. 

If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way,  and  see  your  beauty 

bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I  'd  own  it  was  but  right. 

0  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace  hall, 
Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet  curtains  fall ! 
O  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean  and  small, 
With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud  the  only  wall ! 

0  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty  's  my  distress  ! 

It 's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I  '11  never  wish  it  less ; 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and  I  am  poor  and 

low; 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever  you  may  go ! 


THE  LEPRECAUN,   OR  FAIRY  SHOEMAKER. 

A  EHYME  FOR  CHILDEEN. 

LITTLE  cow-boy,  what  have  you  heard, 

Up  on  the  lonely  rath's  green  mound  ] 
Only  the  plaintive  yellow-bird 

Singing  in  sultry  fields  around  1 
Chary,  chary,  chary,  chee-e ! 
Only  the  grasshopper  and  the  bee1? 
"  Tip-tap,  rip-rap, 
Tick-a-tack-too ! 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM.  349 

Scarlet  leather,  sewn  together, 

This  will  make  a  shoe. 
Left,  right,  pull  it  tight ; 

Summer  days  are  warm ; 
Underground  in  winter, 

Laughing  at  the  storm ! " 
Lay  your  ear  close  to  the  hill. 
Do  you  not  catch  the  tiny  clamor, 
Busy  click  of  an  elfin  hammer, 
Voice  of  the  Leprecaun  singing  shrill 
As  he  merrily  plies  his  trade  ? 

He  's  a  span 

And  a  quarter  in  height. 
Get  him  in  sight,  hold  him  fast, 
And  you  're  a  made 
Man!, 

You  watch  your  cattle  the  summer  day, 
Sup  on  potatoes,  sleep  in  the  hay ; 

How  should  you  like  to  roll  in  your  carriage 
And  look  for  a  duchess's  daughter  in  marriage  1 
Seize  the  shoemaker,  so  you  may  ! 
"  Big  boots  a  hunting, 
Sandals  in  the  hall, 
White  for  a  wedding  feast, 

And  pink  for  a  ball, 
This  way,  that  way, 

So  we  make  a  shoe, 
Getting  rich  every  stitch, 

Tick-tack-too ! " 

Nine  and  ninety  treasure  crocks 
This  keen  miser-fairy  hath, 
Hid  in  mountain,  wood,  and  rocks, 
Kuin  and  round-tower,  cave  and  rath, 
And  where  the  cormorants  build ; 


350      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

From  times  of  old 

Guarded  by  him ; 
Each  of  them  filled 
Full  to  the  brim 
With  gold ! 

I  caught  him  at  work  one  day  myself, 

In  the  castle  ditch  where  the  foxglove  grows ; 
A  wrinkled,  wizened,  and  bearded  elf, 
Spectacles  stuck  on  the  point  of  his  nose, 
Silver  buckles  to  his  hose, 
Leather  apron,  shoe  in  his  lap ; 
"Rip-rap,  tip-tap, 
Tick-tack-too! 
A  grig  stepped  upon  my  cap, 

Away  the  moth  flew. 
Buskins  for  a  fairy  prince, 

Brogues  for  his  son, 
Pay  me  well,  pay  me  well, 
When  the  job  's  done." 
The  rogue  was  mine  beyond  a  doubt, 
I  stared  at  him ;  he  stared  at  me  ! 
"  Servant,  sir  ! "     "  Humph  !  "  said  he, 

And  pulled  a  snuff-box  out. 
He  took  a  long  pinch,  looked  better  pleased, 

The  queer  little  Leprecaun ; 
Offered  the  box  with  a  whimsical  grace,  — 
Pouf !  he  flung  the  dust  in  my  face, 
And,  while  I  sneezed, 
Was  gone ! 

The  Leprecaun  is  a  fairy  in  the  shape  of  a  little  old  shoemaker,  who, 
if  surprised  and  caught,  can  be  compelled  to  show  the  locality  of  hidden 
treasure,  unless  he  can  induce  his  captor  by  some  surprise  or  stratagem 
to  take  his  eyes  from  him,  in  which,  case  he  vanishes.  Irish  folk-lore 
has  a  great  number  of  legends  relating  to  the  Leprecaun. 


AUBKEY  DE  VERE. 

AN  Irish  poet  representing  the  highest  type  of  the  mod- 
ern Catholic  spirit,  and  of  rare  and  spiritual  refine- 
ment, is  Aubrey  Thomas  De  Vere.  He  is  the  third  son  of  Sir 
Aubrey  De  Vere,  author  of  "Mary  Tudor,"  an  historical  drama, 
and  other  poems,  and  was  born  at  the  ancestral  residence, 
Curragh  Chase,  in  the  county  of  Limerick,  in  1814.  He  was 
educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  the  record  of  his 
life  has  been  that  of  religious  and  literary  culture,  with  ex- 
tended travel  and  residence  in  Rome,  and  its  only  events 
proper  for  a  living  biography  have  been  the  publication  of 
his  poems.  They  consist  of  "  The  Waldenses,  or  The  Fall 
of  Lora,"  a  lyrical  tale  published  in  1842 ;  "  The  Search  after 
Proserpine,  Recollections  of  Greece,  and  Other  Poems,"  in 
1843;  "Poems,  Miscellaneous  and  Sacred,"  in  1856;  "May 
Carols,"  in  1857;  "The  Sisters,  Inisfail,  and  Other  Poems," 
in  1861;  "Irish  Odes  and  Other  Poems,"  in  1869;  "The 
Legends  of  St.  Patrick,"  in  1872  ;  and  "Alexander  the  Great," 
in  1874.  He  is  also  the  author  of  several  prose  pamphlets 
on  religious  and  national  questions.  A  volume  of  selections 
from  his  poems  has  been  published  by  his  authority  by  the 
Catholic  Publication  Society  in  the  United  States. 

The  distinguishing  feature  of  Mr.  De  Vere's  literary  pro- 
duction has  been  its  devotion  to  the  Roman  Church,  and  he 
is  a  thorough  representative  of  the  spirit  of  modern  Catholic 
culture  associated  with  the  names  of  Cardinal  Newman  and 


352   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

the  Comte  de  Montalembert.  His  poetry  is  thoroughly  sat- 
urated with  a  spirit  of  devotion,  and  he  has  reached  his  high- 
est power  in  the  interpretation  of  the  mystic  symbolism  of 
the  Church,  and  in  the  expression  of  the  feelings  of  personal 
adoration  associated  with  its  ceremonials.  His  "  May  Carols  " 
are  a  series  of  poems  to  the  Virgin  Mother,  breathing  a  mys- 
tical fervor  and  a  mediseval  purity  and  strength  of  devotion, 
and  in  almost  all  his  poetry  the  religious  flavor  is  apparent. 
As  a  nationalist,  he  is  also  primarily  a  Catholic,  not  in  any 
narrow  or  political  sense,  but  with  a  constant  reference  to 
the  higher  claims  of  the  Church,  and  the  spirit  of  religion, 
which  it  inculcates,  to  guide  and  inform  all  national  action. 
In  style  his  poetry  is  mystic  and  fervid.  His  landscapes  are 
fraught  with  the  imaginative  spirit  of  Shelley,  and  the  aspects 
of  nature  are  painted  with  the  mystic  emanations  of  spiritual 
meaning,  when  not  peopled  with  the  actual  forms  of  spiritual 
inhabitants,  as  may  be  seen  in  a  single  example  from  many 
equally  striking,  from  "An  Autumnal  Ode." 

"  A  sacred  stillness  hangs  upon  the  air, 

A  sacred  stillness.     Distant  shapes  draw  nigh  ; 

Glistens  yon  Elm-grove,  to  its  heart  laid  bare, 
And  all  articulate  in  its  symmetry, 
With  here  and  there  a  branch  that  from  on  high 

Far  flashes  washed  as  in  a  watery  gleam  ; 

Beyond  the  glossy  lake  lies  calm,  —  a  beam 

Upheaved,  as  if  in  sleep,  from  its  slow  central  stream." 

Some  of  his  devotional  odes  and  sonnets  have  a  flavor  of  the 
clear  and  fervid  piety  of  the  "  Vita  Nuova,"  and  many  of  his 
classic  poems  show  a  thoroughly  Grecian  simplicity  and  sharp- 
ness of  outline.  He  is  not  calculated  to  be  ever  popular,  and 
has  less  of  strength  when  endeavoring  to  depict  the  imme- 
diate wrongs  and  sufferings  of  the  Famine  year ;  and  the  mys- 
tic element  intrudes  into  such  tales  of  common  life  as  "The 


AUBREY  DE  YERE.  353 

Sisters/'  to  the  degree  of  giving  them  an  air  of  unreality. 
But  he  is  far  from  being  without  a  direct  strength,  and  even 
an  epigrammatic  force  on  a  congenial  theme.  His  style  and 
spirit  are  very  different  from  those  of  the  modern  school  of 
poetry  with  its  perfervid  sensuousness,  and  his  religion  is 
that  of  a  church  opposed  to  the  modern  school  of  sceptical 
thought.  But  the  purity  and  grace  of  his  diction,  the  lofty 
spirit  of  devotion  and  genuine  mysticism  in  contrast  to  the 
affectation  of  it  resulting  from  an  artistic  fashion,  should 
have  won  him  a  higher  critical  estimate  or  knowledge  in 
English  literary  circles  than  he  has  received,  and  which  he 
will  obtain  as  his  merits  must  make  their  way.  In  our 
opinion,  he  will  some  day  be  considered  worthy  of  a  place 
beside  Shelley  and  Landor,  and  acknowledged  as  a  remark- 
able and  rare  type  of  modern  poetical  genius. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  THE  FUTURE. 

HARK,  hark  that  chime  !  The  frosts  are  o'er 

With  song  the  birds  force  on  the  spring : 
Thus,  Ireland,  sang  thy  bards  of  yore ;  — 

0  younger  bards,  't  is  time  to  sing  ! 
Your  country's  smile,  that  with  the  past 

Lay  dead  so  long,  —  that  vanished  smile,  - 
Evoke  it  from  the  dark,  and  cast 

Its  light  around  a  tearful  isle  ! 

Like  severed  locks  that  keep  their  light 
When  all  the  stately  frame  is  dust, 

A  nation's  songs  preserve  from  blight 
A  nation's  name,  their  sacred  trust. 
23 


354       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Temple  and  pyramid  eterne 

May  memorize  her  deeds  of  power ; 

But  only  from  the  songs  we  learn 

How  throbbed  her  life-blood,  hour  by  hour. 

Thrice  blessed  the  strain  that  brings  to  one 

Who  weeps  by  some  Australian  rill 
A  worn-out  life  far  off  begun, 

His  country's  countenance  beauteous  still ! 
That  'mid  Canadian  wilds,  or  where 

Rich-feathered  birds  are  void  of  song, 
Wafts  back,  'mid  gusts  of  Irish  air, 

Old  wood-notes  loved  and  lost  so  long ! 

Well  might  the  Muse  at  times  forsake 

Her  Grecian  hill,  and  sit  where  swerve 
In  lines  like  those  of  Hebe's  neck 

That  wood-girt  bay,  yon  meadow's  curve,* 
Watching  the  primrose  clusters  throw 

Their  wan  light  o'er  that  ivied  cave, 
And  airs  by  myrtles  odored  blow 

The  apple-blossom  on  the  wave ! 

Thrice  blessed  the  strain  that,  when  the  May 

Woos  thus  the  young  leaf  from  the  bud, 
When  robins,  thrushlike,  shake  the  spray, 

And  deepening  purples  tinge  the  flood, 
Kindles  new  worlds  of  love  and  truth, 

This  world's  lost  Eden,  still  new-born, 
In  breast  of  Irish  maid  or  youth, 

Reading  beneath  the  Irish  thorn ! 

That  lures  from  overheated  strife 
Blinded  ambition's  tool ;  that  o'er 

*  Foynes  island.  —  Author's  note. 


AUBREY  DE  VERE.  355 

The  fields  of  unsabbatic  life 

The  church  bells  of  the  past  can  pour; 
Around  the  old  oak  lightning-scarred 

Can  raise  the  virgin  woods  that  rang 
When,  throned  'mid  listening  kerns,  the  bard 

Of  Oisin  and  of  Patrick  sang. 

Saturnian  years  return  !     Erelong 

Peace,  justice-built,  the  Isle  shall  cheer  ; 
Even  now  old  sounds  of  ancient  wrong 

At  distance  roll,  and  come  not  near: 
Past  is  the  iron  age,  —  the  storms 

That  lashed  the  worn  cliff,  shock  on  shock ; 
The  bird,  in  tempest  cradled,  warms 

At  last  her  wings  upon  the  rock. 

How  many  a  bard  may  lurk  even  now, 

Ireland,  among  thy  noble  poor ! 
To  Truth  their  genius  let  them  vow, 

And  scorn  the  Siren's  tinsel  lure ; 
Faithful  to  illustrate  God's  word 

On  Nature  writ ;  or  re-revealing 
Through  Nature,  Christian  lore  transferred 

From  faith  to  sight  by  songs  heart-healing. 

Fair  land !  the  skill  was  thine  of  old 

Upon  the  illumined  scroll  to  trace, 
In  heavenly  blazon,  blue  or  gold, 

The  martyr's  palm,  the  angel's  face ; 
One  day  on  every  Muse's  page 

Be  thine  a  saintly  light  to  fling, 
And  bathe  the  world's  declining  age 

Once  more  in  its  baptismal  spring. 


356       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Man  sows.     A  Hand  divine  must  reap ; 

The  toil  wins  most  that  wins  not  praise ; 
Stones  buried  in  oblivion's  deep 

May  help  the  destined  pile  to  raise, 
Foundations  fix  for  pier  or  arch ; 

Above  that  spirit-bridge's  span 
To  Faith's  inviolate  home  may  march, 

In  God's  good  time,  enfranchised  man. 


SONNET. 

ENGLAND,  magnanimous  art  thou  in  name ; 

Magnanimous  in  nature  once  thou  wert ; 

But  that  which  ofttimes  lags  behind  desert, 
And  crowns  the  dead,  as  oft  survives  it,  —  Fame. 
Can  she  whose  hand  a  merchant's  pen  makes  tame 

Or  sneer  of  nameless  scribe,  —  can  she  whose  heart 

In  camp  or  senate  still  is  at  the  mart, 
A  nation's  toils,  a  nation's  honors,  claim  1 
Thy  shield  of  old  torn  Poland  twice  and  thrice 

Invoked ;  thy  help  as  vainly  Ireland  asks, 

Pointing  with  stark,  lean  finger,  from  the  crest 
Of  Western  cliffs,  plague-stricken,  to  the  West,  — 
Gray-haired,  though  young ;  when  heat  is  sucked  from  ice, 

Then  shall  a  Firm  discharge  a  nation's  tasks. 


AUBREY  DE   VERB.  357 

THE   LITTLE   BLACK    ROSE. 

A   JACOBITE   SONG. 

THE  little  black  rose  shall  be  red  at  last; 

What  made  it  black  but  the  March-wind  dry, 
And  the  tear  of  the  widow  that  fell  on  it  fast  1 

It  shall  redden  the  hills  when  June  is  nigh. 

The  Silk  of  the  kine  shall  rest  at  last ;  — 
What  drove  her  forth  but  the  dragon-fly  ? 

In  the  golden  vale  she  shall  feed  full  fast, 

With  her  mild  gold  horn,  and  her  slow  dark  eye. 

The  wounded  wood-dove  lies  dead  at  last ; 

The  pine  long  bleeding  it  shall  not  die ;  — 
Their  song  is  secret.     Mine  ear  it  passed 

In  a  wind  o'er  the  plains  of  Athenry. 

ODE   TO    THE   DAFFODIL. 

0  LOVE  STAR  of  the  unbeloved  March, 

When,  cold  and  shrill, 
Forth  flows  beneath  a  low,  dim-lighted  arch 

The  wind  that  beats  sharp  crag  and  barren  hill, 

And  keeps  unfilmed  the  lately  torpid  rill. 

A  week  or  e'er 

Thou  com'st,  thy  soul  is  round  us  everywhere ; 
And  many  an  auspice,  many  an  omen, 
Whispers,  scarce-noted,  thou  art  coming. 
Huge,  cloud-like  trees  grow  dense  with  sprays  and  buds, 
And  cast  a  shapelier  gloom  o'er  freshening  grass, 


358      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IEELAND. 

And  through  the  fringe  of  ragged  woods 

More  shrouded  sunbeams  pass. 
Fresh  shoots  conceal  the  pollard's  spike 

The  driving  rack  outbraving; 
The  hedge  swells  large  by  ditch  and  dike ; 
And  all  the  uncolored  world  is  like 

A  shadow-limned  engraving. 
Herald  and  harbinger  !  with  thee 
Begins  the  year's  great  jubilee  ! 

Of  her  solemnities  sublime 
(A  sacristan,  whose  gusty  taper 
Flashes  through  earliest  morning  vapor) 

Thou  ring'st  -dark  nocturns  and  dim  prime. 
Birds  that  have  yet  no  heart  for  song 

Gain  strength  with  thee  to  twitter; 
And,  warm  at  last,  where  hollies  throng, 

The  mirrored  sunbeams  glitter ; 
With  silk  the  osier  plumes  her  tendrils  thin ; 

Sweet  blasts,  though  keen  as  sweet,  the  blue  lake  wrinkle ; 
And  buds  on  leafless  boughs  begin 

Against  gray  skies  to  twinkle. 

To  thee  belongs 

A  pathos  drowned  in  later  scents  and  songs. 
Thou  com'st  when  first  the  spring 

On  winter's  verge  encroaches ; 
When  gifts  that  speed  on  wounded  wing 

Meet  little  save  reproaches. 
Thou  com'st  when  blossoms  blighted, 

Retracted  sweets,  and  ditty, 
From  suppliants  oft  deceived  and  spited 

More  anger  draw  than  pity. 
Thee  the  old  shepherd  on  the  bleak  hillside 

Far  distant  eying  leans  upon  his  staff 


AUBREY  DE  YERE.  359 

Till  from  his  cheek  the  wind-brushed  tear  is  dried ; 

In  thee  he  spells  his  boyhood's  epitaph. 
To  thee  belongs  the  youngling  of  the  flock, 

When  first  it  lies,  close  huddled  from  the  cold, 
Between  the  sheltering  rock 

And  gorse  brush  slowly  overcrept  with  gold. 

Thou  laugh'st,  bold  outcast,  bright  as  brave, 
When  the  wood  bellows,  and  the  cave, 
And  leagues  inland  is  heard  the  wave ; 

Hating  the  dainty  and  the  fine 

As  sings  the  blackbird  thou  dost  shine. 
Thou  com'st  while  yet  on  mountain  lawns  high  up 

Lurks  the  last  snow-wreath,  —  by  the  berried  breer 
While  yet  the  black  spring  in  its  craggy  cup 

No  music  makes  or  charms  no  listening  ear. 
Thou  com'st  while  from  the  oak  stock  or  red  beech 
Dead  autumn  scoffs  young  spring  with  splenetic  speech ; 

When  in  her  vidual  chastity  the  year 

With  frozen  memories  of  the  sacred  past 

Her  doors  and  heart  makes  fast, 

And  loves  no  flowers  save  those  that  deck  the  bier ;  — 
Ere  yet  the  blossomed  sycamore 
With  golden  surf  is  curdled  o'er ; 
Ere  yet  the  birch  against  the  blue 
Her  silken  tissue  weaves  anew. 
Thou  com'st  while,  meteor-like,  'mid  fens,  the  weed 

Swims,  wan  in  light ;  while  sleet  showers  whitening  glare ; 
Weeks  ere  by  river-brims,  new  firr'd,  the  reed 

Leans  its  green  javelin  level  in  the  air. 

Child  of  the  strong  and  strenuous  East ! 
Now  scattered  wide  o'er  dusk  hill  bases, 
Now  massed  in  broad  illuminate  spaces ;  — 
Torch-bearer  at  a  wedding  feast 


360      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Whereof  thou  may'st  not  be  partaker, 
But  mime  at  most,  and  merry-maker ; 
Phosphor  of  an  ungrateful  sun 
That  rises  but  to  bid  thy  lamp  begone ;  — 

Farewell !  I  saw 

Writ  large  on  woods  and  lawns  to-day  that  law 
Which  back  remands  thy  race  and  thee 
To  hero-haunted  shades  of  dark  Persephone. 
To-day  the  Spring  has  pledged  her  marriage  vow ; 

Her  voice,  late  tremulous,  strong  has  grown  and  steady ! 
To-day  the  Spring  is  crowned  a  queen ;  but  thou 

Thy  winter  hast  already  ! 
Take  my  song's  blessing,  and  depart, 
Type  of  true  service,  —  unrequited  heart ! 


"GOOD-HEARTED." 

THE  young  lord  betrayed  an  orphan  maid, 
The  young  lord,  soft-natured  and  easy, 

The  man  was  "  good-hearted,"  the  neighbors  said, 

Flung  meat  to  his  dogs,  to  the  poor  flung  bread. 

His  father  stood  laughing,  while  Drogheda  bled ; 
He  hated  a  conscience  uneasy. 

A  widow  met  him,  dark  trees  o'erhead, 
Her  child  and  the  man  just  parted. 

When  home  she  walked,  her  knife  it  was  red ; 

Swiftly  she  walked  and  muttered  and  said, 

"  The  blood  rushed  fast  from  a  fount  full  fed." 
Ay,  the  young  lord  was  right  good-hearted. 


When  morning  wan  its  first  beam  shed, 
It  fell  on  a  corpse  yet  wanner. 


AUBREY  DE  VERE.  361 

The  great-hearted  dogs  the  young  lord  had  fed 
Watched  one  at  the  feet  and  one  at  the  head,  — 
But  their  mouths  with  a  blood  pool  hard  by  were  red,  — 
They  loved  in  the  young  lord's  manner. 


EPITAPH. 

HE  roamed  half  round  the  world  of  woe, 
Where  toil  and  labor  never  cease ; 

Then  dropped  one  little  span  below 
In  search  of  peace. 

And  now  to  him  mild  beams  and  showers, 
All  that  he  needs  to  grace  his  tomb, 

From  loneliest  regions  at  all  hours, 
Unsought  for  come. 


SONG. 

SEEK  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 

And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name,  while  yet  't  is  dark, 

Upon  the  wood. 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 

And  wreaths  hard  won  ; 
Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong  hands, 

Till  day  is  done. 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek's  pale  roses, 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 

Her  soul  reposes. 


3G2      THE  POETS  AND  POETKY  OF  IRELAND. 

Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man,  true  knight ! 

The  clash  of  arms 
Shall  more  prevail  than  whispered  tale 

To  win  her  charms. 

The  warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love's  name. 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from  the  fight 

Lures  thee  to  shame. 
That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free ; 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 

Man-shaped  like  thee. 


NOCTURN   HYMN. 

Now  God  suspends  its  shadowy  pall 

Above  the  world,  yet  still 
A  steely  lustre  plays  o'er  all, 

With  evanescent  thrill. 

Softly,  with  favoring  footstep,  press 
Among  those  yielding  bowers,  — 

Over  the  cold  dews  colorless, 
Damp  leaves  and  folded  flowers. 

Sleep,  little  birds,  in  bush  and  brake  ! 

'T  is  surely  ours  to  raise 
Glad  hymns,  ere  humbler  choirs  awake 

Their  anthem  in  God's  praise. 


AUBREY  DE  VERB.  363 

The  impatient  zeal  of  faithful  love 

Hath  forced  us  from  our  bed ; 
But  doubly  blest  repose  will  prove, 

After  our  service  said  I 

How  dim,  how  still  this  slumbering  wood  ! 

And,  0,  how  sweetly  rise 
From  clouded  boughs,  and  herbs  bedewed, 

Their  odors  to  the  skies  ! 

Sweet,  as  that  mood  of  mystery, 
When  thoughts  that  hide  their  hues 

Reveal  their  presence  only  by 
The  sweetness  they  diffuse. 

But,  hark  !  o'er  all  the  mountain's  verge 

The  night  wind  sweeps  along ; 
0,  haste  and  tune  its  echoing  surge 

To  a  prelusive  song  ! 

A  song  of  thanks  and  laud  to  Him 

Who  makes  our  labor  cease, 
Who  feeds  with  love  the  midnight  dim, 

And  hearts  devout  with  peace  ! 


THOMAS  IRWIN. 

THOMAS  CAULFIELD  IRWIN  is  a  native  of  Ulster, 
but  has  resided  for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  Dub- 
lin, where  he  has  supported  himself  by  literary  and  journal- 
istic labors.  His  poetry  has  been  contributed  to  "Duffy's 
Hibernian  Magazine,"  and  other  periodicals  published  in 
Dublin,  and  he  has  issued  three  small  volumes  :  "  Versicles," 
published  in  1856  ;  "Poems,"  in  1866;  and  "Irish  Poems 
and  Legends,"  in  1868. 

None  of  Mr.  Irwin's  poems  are  beyond  the  magazine 
length,  and  the  greater  part  are  inspired  by  literary  studies 
rather  than  by  direct  communion  with  men  or  nature.  He 
has  a  fine  vein  of  description,  with  much  power  of  the  imagi- 
nation, and  a  concise  and  often  highly  finished  style.  His 
national  poems  are  chiefly  ballads  on  historical  subjects,  but 
some  of  his  briefer  lyrics  give  an  original  and  effective  inter- 
pretation of  Irish  life. 


THE  POTATO-DIGGER'S   SONG. 

COME,  Connal,  acushla,  turn  the  day, 

And  show  the  lumpers  the  light,  gossoon  ! 

For  we  must  toil  this  autumn  day, 

With  Heaven's  help,  till  rise  of  the  moon. 

Our  corn  is  stacked,  our  hay  secure, 

Thank  God !  and  nothing,  my  boy,  remains 


THOMAS  IRWIN.  365 

But  to  pile  the  potatoes  safe  on  the  flure, 
Before  the  coining  November  rains. 
The  peasant's  mine  is  his  harvest  still ; 
So  now,  my  lads,  let 's  work  with  a  will ;  — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  crumbly  mould. 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of   Ireland. 

Och,  I  wish  that  Maurice  and  Mary  dear 
Were  singing  beside  us  this  soft  day ! 
Of  course  they  're  far  better  off  than  here ; 

But  whether  they  're  happier  who  can  say  ? 
I  've  heard  when  it 's  morn  with  us,  't  is  night 
With  them  on  the  far  Australian  shore ;  — 
Well,  Heaven  be  about  them  with  visions  bright, 
And  send  them  childer  and  money  galore. 
With  us  there  's  many  a  mouth  to  fill, 
And  so,  my  boy,  let's  work  with  a  will ;  — - 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  brown,  dry  mould. 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 

Ah,  then,  Paddy  O'Reardan,  you  thundering  Turk, 
Is  it  coorting  you  are  in  the  blessed  noon  1 


366       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Come  over  here,  Katty,  and  mind  your  work, 

Or  I  '11  see  if  your  mother  can't  change  your  tune ; 
Well  youth  will  be  youth,  as  you  know,  Mike, 

Sixteen  and  twenty  for  each  were  meant ; 
Bat,  Pat,  in  the  name  of  the  fairies,  avic, 
Defer  your  proposals  till  after  Lent ; 

And  as  love  in  this  country  lives  mostly  still 
On  potatoes,  dig,  boy,  dig  with  a  will ;  — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  harvest  mould. 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 

Down  the  bridle  road  the  neighbors  ride, 

Through  the  light  ash  shade,  by  the  wheaten  sheaves, 
And  the  children  sing  on  the  mountain  side, 

In  the  sweet  blue  smoke  of  the  burning  leaves  j 
As  the  great  sun  sets  in  glory  furled, 

Faith  it 's  grand  to  think  as  I  watch  his  face, 
If  he  never  sets  on  the  English  world, 
He  never,  lad,  sets  on  the  Irish  race. 

In  the  West,  in  the  South,  new  Irelands  still 
Grow  up  in  his  light ;  —  come,  work  with  a  will ;  — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  native  mould ; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 


THOMAS  IRWIK  367 

But  look  !  —  the  round  moon,  yellow  as  corn, 

Comes  up  from  the  sea  in  the  deep  blue  calm ; 
It  scarcely  seems  a  day  since  morn; 

"Well,  the  heel  of  the  evening  to  you,  ma'am  ! 
God  bless  the  moon !  for  many  a  night, 

As  I  restless  lay  on  a  troubled  bed, 
When  rent  was  due,  her  quieting  light 

Has  flattered  with  dreams  my  poor  old  head. 
But  see,  —  the  basket  remains  to  fill. 
Come,  girls,  be  alive ;  —  boys,  dig  with  a  will  j  — 
Work  hand  and  foot, 
Work  spade  and  hand, 
Work  spade  and  hand 

Through  the  moonlit  mould ; 
The  blessed  fruit 
That  grows  at  the  root 
Is  the  real  gold 
Of  Ireland. 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  VOYAGE. 
EVENING. 

THE  white  sails  are  filled,  and  the  wind  from  the  shore 
Blows  sad  from  the  hills  we  shall  visit  no  more ; 
And  our  ship  slowly  moves  o'er  the  ocean  at  rest, 
From  the  land  of  our  hearts,  in  the  light  of  the  West. 

Though  few  are  the  friends  on  the  land's  sinking  rim, 
Yet  our  eyes,  straining  into  the  sunset,  grow  dim ; 
We  are  leaving  forever  the  walks  where  we  strayed, 
And  the  graves  where  the  dust  of  our  dearest  is  laid. 


368      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Now  twilight  has  covered  the  isle  in  its  gloom ; 
Dark  the  village,  and  lost  the  old  place  of  the  tomb ; 
And  we  see  but  yon  dusk  mountain  line  in  the  light, 
We  have  watched  from  our  cottage  doors  many  a  night. 

Ah  !  the  stars  on  the  ocean  are  glimmering  nigh, 
Like  the  eyes  of  the  dead  looking  up  at  the  sky  j 
And  our  ship  speeds  along,  as  heart-wearied  we  sleep, 
'Mid  the  waters  of  God  and  the  clouds  of  the  deep. 


MORNING. 

FULL  stretched  are  the  sails,  dim  and  dewy  the  spars ; 
On  the  spray-wetted  deck  falls  the  light  of  the  stars, 
And  the  blue  lonely  morning  breaks  coldly,  as  we, 
In  the  wind,  cleave  the  hurrying  heaps  of  the  sea. 

All  alone  in  the  world,  without  riches  below, 
"We  have  memories  that  wander  wherever  we  go ; 
And  wild  sorrow  reasons,  'mid  tears  falling  fast, 
That  the  present  may  still  draw  its  light  from  the  past. 

Oft  of  mornings  to  come  from  our  windows  we  '11  bend, 
And  look  on  the  sun,  that  bright  following  friend ; 
Still  fondly  remembering  his  glory  has  shone 
On  the  land  that  we  love,  and  the  friends  who  are  gone. 

Oft  at  even,  when  labor  is  o'er  for  a  while, 
Will  our  hearts  travel  back  to  our  own  blessed  isle, 
Across  the  great  sea  we  have  traversed  in  gloom, 
And  hover  in  prayer  by  the  old  lonely  tomb. 

Yes,  spirits  beloved,  though  your  home  were  as  far 
From  our  world-wearied  hearts  as  the  loneliest  star, 


THOMAS  IRWIK  369 

Our  prayers  shall  arise  for  ye  from  the  far  clime, 
O,  many  and  many  and  many  a  time ! 

We  will  hear  the  sweet  voice  that  on  earth  sounds  no  more 
Still  murmuring  for  us  from  the  heaven's  happy  shore ; 
We  will  hear  those  dim  footsteps  at  gray  silent  morn, 
That  paced  our  lost  home  long  before  we  were  born. 

Old  scenes,  where  we  wandered  together,  will  rise ;  — 
The  fair  window  landscape,  the  soft,  rainy  skies, 
The  old  green-patched  hill,  where  the  dewy  light  plays, 
Where  your  shadows  oft  passed  on  the  old  summer  days. 

Not  alone,  not  alone,  will  we  labor  and  roam : 
Where  your  memories  linger  we  still  have  a  home, 
And  shall  still  tread,  in  fancy,  the  paths  you  have  trod, 
Until  death  leads  us  up  to  our  dear  ones  and  God. 


THE  SEA-SERPENT. 

UPON  the  level  of  the  midnight  sea 
Rested  the  blue  dome  of  immensity, 

Spangled  with  starry  clusters  innumerate ; 

Save  to  the  east,  where  lay  a  line  of  clouds 
Foam  pale,  but  indistinct  as  unguessed  fate ; 

As  stately  the  full  sailed  ship  cleft  through 

The  waste  of  heaving  blue, 
Beneath  the  swinging  oil  lamp's  yellow  glow, 
Over  his  charts,  the  captain  bent  below, 
Calmly  secure  whence'er  a  wind  should  blow ; 

The  sailors  sang  at  the  helm  and  in  the  shrouds. 
24 


370      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Three  bells  had  gone,  a  dark  cloud  dimmed  the  moon, 
That  underneath  the  wave  would  vanish  soon ; 

And  in  the  solemn  darkness  before  dawn, 

All,  save  the  helmsman,  slept ;  when  in  the  wake 
A  strange  and  rushing  sound  Burned  his  cheek  wan ; 

And,  looking  o'er  his  shoulder,  he  beheld 

A  something  black  that  swelled 
And  lengthened  far  away,  while  all  around 
The  monstrous  head  advancing,  bound  on  bound, 
A  storm  of  surge  and  watery  thunder's  sound, 

Bursting  the  sea  calm,  caused  his  heart  to  quake. 

The  last  light  of  the  moon  was  glimmering  drear, 
As  on  the  lonely  ocean  IT  drew  near, 

Sending  a  mountain  ridge  of  billows  before ; 

And  straight  behind  the  heaving  stern  he  saw 
The  million-headed  hydra  black  and  frore, 
With  crest  enormous  o'er  the  surge,  and  eyes 

Yellow  in  moonlight,  risej  « 

And  —  as  it  shouldered  aside  and  thundered  past 
The  seas,  foam  maddened  by  the  rushing  blast 
Of  its  swift  motion  —  sloaky  masses  vast, 

Of  serpent  black,  ravenous  with  mouth  and  claw. 

Innumerable  monsters  joined  in  one 

Writhed  from  its  sides  and  hissed  its  back  upon, 

Erect  with  rage,  or  sleek  with  black  disdain, 

Fierce-eyed  and  multitudinous,  bursting  forth, 
Horrored  for  one  dread  mile  the  shaken  main  j 
But  on  the  monster's  brow,  risen  from  sleep, 

Rested  the  awe  of  the  deep ; 
And  round  it  spread  a  shadow  and  a  breath 
Cold  as  the  ice  and  imminent  as  death, 
As  dawn  with  moonlight  mingled,  from  beneath 

Broadening,  beheld  it  vanish  toward  the  north. 


THOMAS  IRWIN.  371 

Stiffened  with  dread  and  dumb  the  helmsman  stood, 
As  through  that  long  black  valley  in  the  flood 

The  last  huge  monster  of  the  early  world 

Shook  the  great  seas  with  unaccustomed  fears ; 
And  dumb  remained,  when  morning's  crimson  curled 
Over  the  vast ;  nor  spake  he  till  death's  hour 

Of  IT,  whose  shape  of  power, 
Sleeps  underneath  the  sun  and  moon  alone 
In  polar  ocean's  solitudes  alone, 
'Mid  alps  of  ice,  lulled  by  the  tempest's  moan,  — 

Then,  but  to  man  appears  once  in  a  thousand  years. 


CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM. 


/CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM,  who  represents  the  later  stage 
\J  of  revolutionary  literature  in  Ireland,  as  embodied  in 
the  Fenian  insurrection  of  1865,  is  a  native  of  Mullinahone, 
County  Tipperary.  He  held  a  prominent  place  in  the  Fenian 
councils,  and  was  connected  with  the  "  Irish  People  "  news- 
paper, the  successor  to  "  The  Nation,"  in  a  political  sense, 
and  which  was  suppressed  in  1865  by  the  arrest  of  its  edi- 
tor, Thomas  Clarke  Luby,  and  the  other  Fenian  leaders.  Mr. 
Kickham  was  also  arrested,  and  tried  for  sedition.  He  was 
convicted  and  sentenced  to  fourteen  years'  penal  servitude, 
a  shorter  term  than  was  inflicted  upon  his  associates,  even 
the  judge  expressing  his  regret  at  being  compelled  to  pro- 
nounce judgment  upon  a  person  of  such  character,  abilities, 
and  temperament.  He  was  released  after  a  short  term  of 
imprisonment,  and  a  subscription  was  taken  up  by  the  na- 
tionalists in  Ireland  and  the  United  States  as  a  testimonial. 
He  is  in  feeble  health,  and  is  afflicted  with  deafness,  the  re- 
sult of  an  accident  in  his  youth. 

Like  Thomas  Davis,  Mr.  Kickham's  motive  in  writing  po- 
etry was  mainly  to  influence  the  people  to  indignation  against 
the  English  authority,  and  he  appealed  directly  to  the  peas- 
antry by  having  his  poems  printed  on  the  ballad  sheets. 
They  are  simple  in  style,  as  might  be  expected,  but  "  Rory 
of  the  Hills  "  is  very  vigorous  and  spirited,  and  "  The  Irish 
Peasant  Girl "  has  a  sweet  and  touching  pathos.  Mr.  Kick- 


CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM.  373 

ham's  poems  are  few  in  number,  and  have  not  been  collected 
in  a  volume.  He  is  also  the  author  of  a  story  of  Irish  life 
with  a  political  purpose,  "Sally  Kavanagh,  or  the  Unten- 
anted  Graves,  a  Tale  of  Tipperary,"  published  in  1869. 


RORY   OF   THE   HILLS. 

"  THAT  rake  up  near  the  rafters, 

Why  leave  it  there  so  long  1 
The  handle,  of  the  best  of  ash, 

Is  smooth  and  straight  and  strong ; 
And,  mother,  will  you  tell  me 

Why  did  my  father  frown, 
When  to  make  the  hay  in  summer-time 

I  climbed  to  take  it  down  1 " 
She  looked  into  her  husband's  eyes, 

While  her  own  with  light  did  fill : 
"  You  '11  shortly  know  the  reason,  boy  !  " 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

The  midnight  moon  is  lighting  up 

The  slopes  of  Slieve-na-man  : 
Whose  foot  affrights  the  startled  hares 

So  long  before  the  dawn  1 
He  stopped  just  where  the  Anner's  stream 

Winds  up  the  woods  anear, 
Then  whistled  low  and  looked  around 

To  see  the  coast  was  clear. 
A  shieling  door  flew  open,  — 

In  he  stepped  with  right  good  will : 
"  God  save  all  here,  and  bless  your  Work," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 


374      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

V 

Right  hearty  was  the  welcome 

That  greeted  him,  I  ween, 
For  years  gone  by  he  fully  proved 

How  well  he  loved  the  Green ; 
And  there  was  one  amongst  them 

Who  grasped  him  by  the  hand,  — 
One,  who  through  all  that  dreary  time 

Roamed  on  a  foreign  strand. 
He  brought  them  news  from  gallant  friends 

That  made  their  heart-strings  thrill ; 
"My  sowl,  I  never  doubted  them," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

They  sat  around  the  humble  board 

Till  dawning  of  the  day, 
And  yet  nor  song  nor  shout  I  heard, 

No  revellers  were  they. 
Some  brows  flushed  red  with  gladness, 

And  some  were  grimly  pale ; 
But  pale  or  red,  from  out  those  eyes 

Flashed  souls  that  never  quail ; 
"  And  sing  us  now  about  the  vow 

They  swore  for  to  fulfil." 
"  Ye  '11  read  it  yet  in  history," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

Next  day  the  ashen  handle 

He  took  down  from  where  it  hung, 
The  toothed  rake,  full  scornfully, 

Into  the  fire  he  flung, 
And  in  its  stead  a  shining  blade 

Is  gleaming  once  again. 
(0  for  a  hundred  thousand 

Of  such  weapons  and  such  men  !) 


CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM.  375 

Right  soldierly  he  wielded  it, 

And,  going  through  his  drill, 
"  Attention!     Charge!     Front,  point !    Advance!" 

Cried  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

She  looked  at  him  with  woman's  pride, 

With  pride  and  woman's  fears ; 
She  flew  to  him,  she  clung  to  him, 

And  dried  away  her  tears. 
He  feels  her  pulse  beat  truly, 

While  her  arms  around  him  twine  : 
"  Now  God  be  praised  for  your  stout  heart, 

Brave  little  wife  of  mine  ! " 
He  swung  his  first-born  in  the  air, 

While  joy  his  heart  did  fill,  — 
"  You  '11  be  a  FREEMAN  yet,  my  boy," 

Said  Rory  of  the  Hill. 

0,  knowledge  is  a  wondrous  power, 

And  stronger  than  the  wind, 
And  thrones  shall  fall  and  despots  bow 

Before  the  might  of  mind  ! 
The  poet  and  the  orator 

The  heart  of  man  can  sway, 
And  would  to  the  kind  heavens 

That  Wolfe  Tone  were  here  to-day  ! 
Yet  trust  me,  friends,  dear  Ireland's  strength, 

Her  truest  strength,  is  still 
The  rough-and-ready  roving  boys 

Like  Rory  of  the  Hill. 


376      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


THE   IRISH  PEASANT   GIRL. 

SHE  lived  beside  the  Aimer, 

At  the  foot  of  Slieve-na-man, 
A  gentle  peasant  girl, 

With  mild  eye  like  the  dawn; 
Her  lips  were  dewy  rosebuds,  — 

Her  teeth  of  pearls  rare,  — 
And  a  snow-drift  'neath  a  beechen  bough 

Her  neck  and  nut-brown  hair. 

How  pleasant 't  was  to  meet  her 

On  Sunday,  when  the  bell 
Was  filling  with  its  mellow  tones 

Lone  wood  and  grassy  dell ; 
And  when  at  eve  young  maidens 

Strayed  the  river-bank  along, 
The  widow's  brown-haired  daughter 

Was  the  loveliest  of  the  throng. 

0  brave,  brave  Irish  girls  !  — 

We  well  may  call  you  brave  ! 
Sure  the  least  of  all  your  perils 

Is  the  stormy  ocean  wave, 
When  you  leave  our  quiet  valleys, 

And  cross  the  Atlantic's  foam, 
To  hoard  your  hard  won  earnings 

For  the  helpless  ones  at  home. 

"Write  word  to  my  own  dear  mother,  — 
Say  we  '11  meet  with  God  above ; 

And  tell  my  little  brothers 
I  send  them  all  my  love ; 


CHARLES  J.  KICKHAM.  377 

May  the  angels  ever  guard  them, 

Is  their  dying  sister's  prayer  ! " 
And  folded  in  the  letter 

Was  a  braid  of  nut-brown  hair. 

Ah  !  cold  and  wellnigh  callous 

This  weary  heart  has  grown, 
For  thy  helpless  fate,  dear  Ireland, 

And  for  sorrows  of  my  own  ! 
Yet  a  tear  my  eye  will  moisten, 

When  by  Anner  side  I  stray, 
For  the  lily  of  the  mountain  foot 

That  withered  far  away. 


WHAT'S  THAT  TO  ANY  MAN  WHETHER  OR  NO] 

I  'VE  a  pound  for  to  spend,  and  a  pound  for  to  lend, 
Cead  mille  failthe,  a  heart  for  a  friend ; 
No  mortal  I  envy,  nor  master  I  own, 
Nor  lord  in  his  castle,  nor  king  on  his  throne. 
Come,  fill  up  your  glasses  !  the  first  cup  we  'll  drain 
To  the  comrades  we  've  lost  on  the  red  battle-plain ; 
0,  we  '11  cherish  their  fame,  boys,  who  died  long  ago, 
And  what 's  that  to  any  man  whether  or  no  7 

The  spinning-wheels  stop,  and  my  girls  grow  pale, 
While  their  mother  is  telling  some  sorrowful  tale 
Of  old  cabins  levelled  and  coffinless  graves, 
And  ships  swallowed  up  in  the  salt  ocean  waves ; 
But,  girls,  that 's  over  for  each  of  you  now, 
You  '11  have  twenty-five  pounds  and  a  three-year-old  cow. 
0,  we  '11  drink  launa  vauna  at  your  weddings,  I  trow, 
And  what 's  that  to  any  man  whether  or  no  1 


378      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Come  here,  Banathce,  sit  beside  me  awhile, 
And  the  pulse  of  your  heart  let  me  read  in  your  smile. 
Would  you  give  your  old  home  for  the  lordliest  hall  1 
Ha !  you  glance  at  my  rifle  that  hangs  on  the  wall, 
And  your  two  gallant  boys  on  parade-day  are  seen 
In  the  ranks  of  the  brave  'neath  the  banner  of  green ; 
0,  I  've  taught  them  to  guard  it  'gainst  traitor  and  foe, 
And  what 's  that  to  any  man  whether  or  no  1 

But  the  youngest  of  all  is  the  white-headed  boy, 

He 's  the  pulse  of  your  heart,  and  our  pride  and  our  joy. 

From  the  hurling  or  dance  he  will  steal  off  to  pray, 

And  wander  alone  by  the  river  all  day ; 

He 's  as  good  as  the  priest  at  his  Latin,  I  hear, 

And  to  college,  please  God,  we  will  send  him  next  year. 

0,  he'  11  offer  the  Mass  for  our  souls  when  we  go, 

And  what 's  that  to  any  man  whether  or  no  ] 

Your  hands,  then,  old  neighbor,  one  cup  more  we'll  drain, 

And  cead  mille  failthe,  —  again  and  again. 

May  discord  and  treason  keep  far  from  our  shore, 

And  union  and  peace  light  our  homes  evermore  ! 

He 's  the  king  of  good  fellows,  the  poor,  honest  man, 

So  we  '11  live  and  be  merry  as  long  as  we  can. 

0,  we'  11  cling  to  old  Ireland  through  weal  and  through  woe, 

And  what 's  that  to  any  man  whether  or  no  1 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON,  one  of  the  most  accom- 
plished scholars  in  ancient  Irish  literature,  and  one 
of  the  most  original  and  national  of  Irish  poets,  was  born 
in  Belfast,  in  1810,  and  spent  his  youth  at  the  family  resi- 
dence in  Collon  House,  in  the  county  of  Antrim.  He  was 
educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  became  a  member 
of  the  circle  of  young  men,  including  Lord  O'Hagan,  Dr. 
Gedrge  Petrie,  John  O'Donovan,  Eugene  Curry,  and  others, 
who  devoted  themselves  to  the  cultivation  of  ancient  Irish 
literature,  and  who  have  done  so  much  to  elucidate  and 
illustrate  it.  In  his  twenty-second  year  he  wrote  "  The 
Forging  of  the  Anchor,"  which  was  recited  by  Christopher 
North  at  one  of  the  symposia  of  the  "  Noctes  Ambrosianee  " 
with  high  praise,  and  which  by  its  vigor  of  rhythmical  mel- 
ody and  force  of  imagination  has  become  one  of  the  familiar 
poems  of  the  English  language.  He  studied  for  the  bar,  to 
which  he  was  admitted  in  1838,  and  acquired  a  successful 
practice  of  a  sound  and  business  character,  which  he  re- 
tained until  his  retirement  from  the  profession  in  1867, 
when  he  was  appointed  Deputy  Keeper  of  the  Records  of 
Ireland,  an  office  which  he  now  holds.  On  St.  Patrick's 
day,  1879,  he  received  the  honor  of  knighthood  from  the 
Duke  of  Marlborough,  Lord  Lieutenant.  His  contributions 
to  literature  in  the  pages  of  Blackwood  and  the  Dublin 
University  Magazine,  during  the  period  of  the  practice  of 


380      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

his  profession,  were  marked,  if  not  numerous.  They  in- 
cluded various  poems  and  translations  from  the  Irish,  a 
series  of  tales  relating  to  early  Irish  history,  afterward  col- 
lected into  a  volume  under  the  title,  of  "  Hibernian  Nights' 
Entertainments  " ;  "  Father  Tom  and  the  Pope,"  a  piece  of 
Rabelaisian  humor,  long  unacknowledged,  and  attributed 
to  Dr.  Maginn  and  other  Irish  Tory  writers;  and  various 
papers  on  the  history  and  archaeological  remains  of  Ireland 
in  the  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy.  He  also 
published  a  valuable  essay  on  "  The  Commercial  Capabilities 
of  Ireland."  In  1865  he  published  a  collection  of  his  poems 
under  the  title  of  "Lays  of  the  Western  Gael";  in  1867, 
the  epic  poem  of  "Congal";  and  in  1880,  a  volume  con- 
taining ballads  and  lyrics,  and  a  poem  in  dramatic  form, 
"  Deirdre,"  illustrating  the  episode  in  Irish  romance  of  that 
name.  In  the  collection  of  his  poems  he  has  been  very 
fastidious,  and  rejected  several  pieces  that  have  received 
popular  approval,  and  which  refuse  to  be  ignored  in  Irish 
literature. 

The  characteristics  of  Sir  Samuel  Ferguson's  poetry,  aside 
from  its  nationality,  are  a  remarkable  strength  of  rhythm,  a 
happy  boldness  of  epithet,  and  broad  touches  of  description, 
that  rival  Campbell's  most  powerful  effects.  It  is  thoroughly 
manly  in  spirit  and  expression,  and  its  lyrical  faculty  is 
frequently  of  the  sort  that  touches  the  nerves,  as  may  be 
particularly  noticed  in  the  rude  vigor  of  the  concluding  stan- 
zas of  "  The  Widow's  Cloak,"  one  of  his  latest  poems.  His 
epic  poem  of  "  Congal,"  as  has  been  said,  rivals  Chapman's 
Homer  in  its  sweeping  strength  of  rhythm  and  the  felicity 
of  its  adjective  epithets.  His  national  poetry  is  thoroughly 
saturated  with  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  bards,  and  repro- 
duces with  a  faithfulness  and  vividness  unequalled  in  the 
restoration  of  an  ancient  form  of  literature  in  another  lan- 
guage. His  nationality  has  a  different  partisan  and  religious 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  381 

complexion  from  that  of  most  of  those  who  are  called  national 
Irish  poets,  so  far  as  modern  poetry  is  concerned ;  but  it  is 
noticeable  in  the  lack  of  political  allusion  rather  than  other- 
wise, and  it  is  entirely  free  from  bitterness  or  vindictiveness. 


THE  HEALING  OF  CONALL  CARNACH. 

O'ER  Slieve  Few,  with  noiseless  tramping  through  the  heavy 

drifted  snow, 

Bealcu,  Connacia's  champion,  in  his  chariot  tracks  the  foe ; 
And  anon  far  off  discerneth,  in  the  mountain  hollow  white, 
Slinger  Keth  and  Coiiall  Carnach  mingling  hand  to  hand 

in  fight. 

Swift  the  charioteer  his  coursers  urged  across  the  wintry 
glade ; 

Hoarse  the  cry  of  Keth  and  hoarser  seemed  to  come,  de- 
manding aid ; 

But  through  wreath  and  swollen  runnel  ere  the  car  could 
reach  anigh, 

Keth  lay  dead,  and  mighty  Conall,  bleeding,  lay  at  point  to 
die. 

Whom  beholding  spent  and  pallid,  Bealcu  exulting  cried, 

"  0  thou  ravening  wolf  of  Uladh,  where  is  now  thy  North- 
ern pride  1 

What  can  now  that  crest  audacious,  what  that  pale,  de- 
fiant brow, 

Once  the  bale  star  of  Connacia's  ravaged  fields,  avail  thee 
now?" 


382      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  Taunts  are  for  reviling  women,"  faintly  Conall  made  reply ; 
"Wouldst  thou  play  the  manlier  foeman,  end  my  pain,  and 

let  me  die. 
Neither  deem  thy  blade  dishonored  that  with  Keth's  a  deed 

it  share, 
For  the  foremost  two  of  Connaught  feat  enough  and  fame  to 

spare." 

"  No,  I  will  not ;  bard  shall  never  in  Dunseverick  hall  make 

boast, 
That  to  quell  one  Northern  riever  needed  two  of  Croghan's 

host; 
But  because  that  word  thou  'st  spoken,  if  but  life  enough 

remains, 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  wives  of  Croghan  clap  their  hands  above 

thy  chains. 

"  Yea,  if  life  enough  but  linger  that  the  leech  may  make  thee 

whole, 

Meet  to  satiate  the  anger  that  beseems  a  warrior's  soul, 
Best  of  leech-craft  I'll  purvey  thee,  make  thee  whole  as 

healing  can, 
And  in  single  combat  slay  thee,  Connaught  man  to  Ulster 

man." 

Binding  him  in  fivefold  fetter,  wrists  and  ankles,  wrists  and 

neck, 

To  his  car's  uneasy  litter  Bealcu  upheaved  the  wreck 
Of  the  broken  man  and  harness ;  but  he  started  with  amaze 
When  he  felt  the  Northern  war-mace,  what  a  weight  it  was 

to  raise. 

Westward  then  through  Breiffny's  borders,  with  his  captive 

and  his  dead, 
Tracked  by  bands  of  fierce  applauders,  wives  and  shrieking 

widows,  sped; 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  383 

And,  the  chained  heroic  carcass  on  the  fair  green  of  Moy 

Slaught 
Casting  down,  proclaimed  his  purpose,  and  bade  Lee,  the 

leech,  be  brought. 

Lee,  the  gentle -faced  physican,  from  his  herb-plot  came  and 
said  : 

"  Healing  is  with  God's  permission ;  health  for  life's  enjoy- 
ment made ; 

And  though  I  mine  aid  refuse  not,  yet,  to  speak  my  purpose 
plain, 

I  the  healing  art  abuse  not,  making  life  enure  to  pain. 

"  But  assure  me  with  the  sanction  of  the  mightiest  oath  ye 

know, 

That  in  case,  in  this  contention,  Conall  overcome  his  foe, 
Straight  departing  from  the  tourney  by  what  path  the  chief 

shall  choose, 
He  is  free  to  take  his  journey  unmolested  to  the  Fews. 

"  Swear  me  further,  while  at  healing  in  my  charge  the  hero 

lies, 
None  shall,  through  my  fences  stealing,  work  him  mischief 

or  surprise ; 

So,  if  God  the  undertaking  but  approve,  in  six  months'  span 
Once  again  my  art  shall  make  him  meet  to  stand  before  a 


Crom,  their  god,  they  then  attested,  Sun  and  Wind  for  guar- 
antees, 

Conall  Carnach  unmolested,  by  what  exit  he  might,  please, 

If  the  victor,  should  have  freedom  to  depart  Connacia's 
bounds ; 

Meantime,  no  man  should  intrude  him,  entering  on  the  hos- 
pice grounds. 


384      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Then,  his  burthen  huge  receiving  in  the  hospice  portal,  Lee, 
Stiffened  limb  by  limb  relieving  with  the  iron  fetter  key, 
As  a  crumpled  scroll  unrolled  him,  groaning  deep,  till,  laid 

at  length, 
Wondering  gazers  might  behold  him,  what  a  tower  he  was 

of  strength. 

Spake  the  sons  to  one  another,  day  by  day,  of  Bealcu,  — 
"Get  thee  up  and  spy,   my  brother,  what  the  leech  and 

Northman  do." 

"  Lee  at  mixing  of  a  potion ;  Conall  yet  in  no  wise  dead, 
As  on  reef  of  rock  the  ocean,  tosses  wildly  on  his  bed." 

"  Spy  again  with  cautious  peeping,  what  of  Lee  and  Conall 

now?" 

"Conalllies  profoundly  sleeping;  Lee  beside  with  placid  brow." 
"  And  to-day  1 "     "  To-day  he  's  risen ;  pallid  as  his  swathing 

sheet, 
He  has  left  his  chamber's  prison,  and  is  walking  on  his  feet." 

"  And  to-day  1 "     "A  ghastly  figure  on  his  javelin  propped  he 

goes." 
"  And  to-day  1"     "A  languid  vigor  through  his  larger  gesture 

shows." 
"  And  to-day  ? "     "  The  blood  renewing  mantles  all  his  clear 

cheek  through. 
Would  thy  vow  had  room  for  rueing,  rashly  valiant  Bealcu  ! " 

So  with  herb  and  healing  balsam,  ere  the  second  month  was 

past, 
Life's  additions  smooth  and  wholesome  circling  through  his 

members  vast, 
As  you  've  seen  a  sere  oak  burgeon  under  summer  showers 

and  dew, 
Conall,  under  his  chirurgeon,  filled  and  flourished,  spread  and 

grew. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FEROUSOX.  385 

"  I  can  bear  the  sight  no  longer  ;  I  have  watched  him  moon 

by  moon  : 
Day  by  day  the  chief  grows  stronger  ;  giant  strong  he  will 

be  soon. 
0  my  sire,  rash-valiant  warrior !  but  that  oaths  have  built 

the  wall, 
Soon  these  feet  should  leap  the  barrier ;  soon  this  hand  thy 

fate  forestall." 

"Brother,  have  the  wish  thou  'st  uttered;  we  have  sworn,  so 

let  it  be  ; 

But  although  the  feet  are  fettered,  all  the  air  is  left  us  free  : 
Dying  Keth  with  vengeful  presage  did  bequeathe  thee  sling 

and  ball, 
And  the  sling  may  send  its  message  where  thy  vagrant 

glances  fall. 

"  Forbaid  was  a  master  slinger ;  Maev,  when  in  her  bath  she 

sank, 
Felt  the  presence  of  his  finger  from  the  further  Shannon 

bank; 

For  he  threw  by  line  and  measure  practising  a  constant  cast 
Daily  in  secluded  leisure  till  he  reached  the  mark  at  last. 

"  Keth  achieved  a  warrior's  honor,   though  't  was   'mid  a 

woman's  band 
When  he  smote  the  amorous  Connor  bowing  from  his  distant 

stand. 

Fit  occasion  will  not  fail  ye  ;  in  the  leech's  lawn  below 
Conall  at  the  fountain  daily  drinks  within  an  easy  throw." 

"  Wherefore  cast  ye  at  the  apple,  sons  of  mine,  with  meas- 
ured aim  1 " 

"He  who  in  the  close  would  grapple  first  the  distant  foe 
should  maim, 

25 


386      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

And  since  Keth,  his  death-balls  casting,  rides  no  more  the 

ridge  of  war, 
We,  against  our  summer  hosting,  train  us  for  his  vacant  car." 

"  Wherefore  to  the  rock  repairing  gaze  ye  forth,  my  children 

tell." 
"  'T  is  a  stag  we  watch  for  snaring  that  frequents  the  leech's 

well." 
"  I  will  see  this  stag,  though  truly  small  may  be  my  eyes' 

delight," 
And  he  climbed  the  rock  where  fully  lay  the  lawn  exposed 

to  sight. 

Conall  to  the  green  well-margin  came  at  dawn  and  knelt  to 

drink, 

Thinking  how  a  noble  virgin  by  a  like  green  fountain's  brink 
Heard  his  own  pure  vows  one  morning  far  away  and  long  ago ; 
All  his  heart  to  home  was  turning,  and  his  tears  began  to  flow. 

Clean  forgetful  of  his  prison,  steep  Dunseverick's  windy  tower 
Seemed  to  rise  in  present  vision,  and  his  own  dear  lady's 

bower. 
Round  the  sheltering  knees  they  gather,  little  ones  of  tender 

years,  — 
"Tell  us,  mother,  of  our  father,"  —  and  she  answers  but  with 

tears. 

Twice  the  big  drops  plashed  the  fountain.    Then  he  rose,  and, 

turning  round, 
As  across  a  breast  of  mountain  sweeps  a  whirlwind,  o'er  the 

ground 
Raced  in  athlete  feats  amazing,  swung  the  war-mace,  hurled 

the  spear; 
Bealcu,  in  wonder  gazing,  felt  the  pangs  of  deadly  fear. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  387 

Had  it  been  a  fabled  griffin,  suppled  in  a  fasting  den, 
Flashed  its  wheeling  coils  to  heaven  o'er  a  wreck  of  beasts 

and  men, 
Hardly  had  the  dreadful  prospect  bred  his  soul  more  dire 

alarms, 
Such  the  fire  of  Conall's  aspect,  such  the  stridor  of  his  arms. 

"  This  is  fear,"  he  said,  "  that  never  shook  these  limbs  of 

mine  till  now. 

Now  I  see  the  mad  endeavor  ;  now  I  mourn  the  boastful  vow. 
Yet  't  was  righteous  wrath  impelled  me,  and  a  sense  of  manly 

shame 
From  his  naked  throat  withheld  me,  when  't  was  offered  to 

my  aim. 

"  Now  I  see  his  strength  excelling,  whence  he  buys  it,  what 

he  pays  ; 
'T  is  a  God,  who  has  his  dwelling  in  the  fount,  to  whom  he 

prays. 
Thither  came  he  weeping,  drooping,  till  the  Well  God  heard 

his  prayer  ; 
Now  behold  him  soaring,  swooping,  as  an  eagle  through  the 

air. 

"  0  thou  God,  by  whatsoever  sounds  of  awe  thy  name  we 

know, 

Grant  thy  servant  equal  favor  with  the  stranger  and  the  foe  ! 
Equal  grace,  't  is  all  I  covet  ;  and  if  sacrificial  blood 
Win  thy  favor,  thou  shalt  have  it  on  thy  very  well-brink,  God  ! 


though  I  've  given  pledges  not  to  cross  the  leech's 
court  1 

Not  to  pass  his  sheltering  hedges  meant  I  to  his  patient's 
hurt. 


388      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND 

Thy  dishonor  meant  I  never ;  never  meant  I  to  forswear 
Right  divine  of  prayer  wherever  Power  divine  invites  to  prayer. 

"  Sun  that  warm'st  me,  Wind  that  fann'st  me,  ye  that  guar- 
antee the  oath, 

Make  no  sign  of  wrath  against  me ;  tenderly  ye  touch  me  both. 

Yea,  then,  through  his  fences  stealing  ere  to-morrow's  sun 
shall  rise, 

Well  God !  on  thy  margin  kneeling,  I  will  offer  sacrifice." 

"  Brother,  rise,  the  skies  grow  ruddy ;  if  we  yet  would  save 

our  sire, 
Rests   a   deed,    courageous,    bloody,    wondering   ages    shall 

admire. 
Hie  thee  to  the  spy  rock's  summit ;  ready  there  thou  'It  find 

the  sling ; 
Ready  there  the  leaden  plummet ;  and  at  dawn  he  seeks  the 

spring." 

Ruddy  dawn  had  changed  to  amber ;  radiant  as  the  yellow 

day, 
Couall,  issuing  from  his  chamber,  to  the  fountain  took  his 

way; 

There  athwart  the  welling  water,  like  a  fallen  pillar  spread, 
Smitten  by  the  bolt  of  slaughter,  lay  Connacia's  champion 

dead. 

Call  the  hosts ;  convene  the  judges ;  cite  the  dead  man's 

children  both. 
Said  the  judges,    "He  gave  pledges,  Sun  and  Wind,  and 

broke  the  oath, 
And  they  slew  him.     So  we  've  written ;  let  his  sons  attend 

our  words." 
"Both,  by  sudden  frenzy  smitten,  fell  at  sunrise  on  their 

swords." 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  389 

Then  the  judges,  "  Ye,  who  punish  man's  prevaricating  vow, 
Needs  not  further  to  admonish ;  contrite  to  your  will  we  bow, 
All  our  points  of  promise  keeping ;  safely  let  the  chief  go 

forth." 
Conall,  to  his  chariot  leaping,  turned  his  coursers  to  the  north, 

In  the  Sun  that  swept  the  valleys,  in  the  Wind's  encircling 

flight, 

Recognizing  holy  allies,  guardians  of  the  Truth  and  Right ; 
While  before  his  face,  resplendent  with  a  firm  faith's  candid 

ray, 
Dazzled  troops  of  foes  attendant  bowed  before  him  on  his  way. 

But  the  calm  physician,  viewing  where  the  white  neck  joined 
the  ear, 

Said,  "  It  is  a  slinger's  doing ;  Sun  nor  Wind  was  actor  here. 

Yet  till  God  vouchsafe  more  certain  knowledge  of  his  sover- 
eign will, 

Better  deem  the  mystic  curtain  hides  their  wonted  demons 
still. 

"  Better  so,  perchance,  than  living  in  a  clearer  light  like  me, 
But  believing  where  perceiving,  bound  in  what  I  hear  and 

see ; 
Force  and  change  in  constant  sequence,   changing  atoms, 

changeless  laws ; 
Only  in  submissive  patience  waiting  access  to  the  Cause. 

"  And,  they  say,  Centurion  Altus,  when  he  to  Ernania  came, 
And  to  Rome's  subjection  called  us,  urging  Caesar's  tribute 

claim, 
Told  that  half  the  world  barbarian  thrills  already  with  the 

faith 
Taught  them  by  the  godlike  Syrian  Caesar  lately  put  to  death. 


390      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

"And  the  Sun,  through  starry  stages  measuring  from  the 

Ram  and  Bull, 

Tells  us  of  renewing  ages,  and  that  Nature's  time  is  full ; 
So,  perchance,  these  silly  breezes  even  now  may  swell  the  sail 
Brings  the  leavening  word  of  Jesus  westward  also  to  the 

Gael." 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

COME,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged,  —  't  is  at  a  white  heat 

now; 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased,  —  though  on  the 

forge's  brow 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable  mound, 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking  round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  bare. 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass 

there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black  mound 

heaves  below, 

And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every  throe  : 
It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright,  —  0  Vulcan,  what  a  glow ! 
'T  is  blinding  white,  't  is  blasting  bright,  —  the  high  sun 

shines  not  so  ! 

The  high  sun  sees  not  on  the  earth  such  fiery  fearful  show ; 
The  roof  ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy,  lurid 

row 

Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the  foe. 
As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  monster 

slow 
Sinks  on  the  anvil,  all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  391 

"  Hurrah  ! "  they  shout,  "  leap  out,  leap  out  ! "  bang,  bang, 

the  sledges  go  ! 

Hurrah  !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and  low,  — 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow, 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail,  the  rattling  cinders 

strew 
The  ground  around ;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fountains 

flow, 
And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd  at  every  stroke  pant 

"Ho!" 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  !  leap  out  and  lay  on  load ! 
Let 's  forge  a  goodly  anchor,  a  bower  thick  and  broad ; 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode, 
And  I  see  a  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road,  — 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  —  the  roll  of  ocean  poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea,  —  the  mainmast  by  the 

board,  — 
The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove  at  the 

chains ; 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners,  the  bower  yet  remains, 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye  pitch  sky 

high; 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "  Fear  nothing,  — 

here  am  I." 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep  time  ! 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple's  chime. 
But  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing,  and  let  the  burthen  be, 
The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we  ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in,  the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling 

red; 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will  soon  be 

sped; 


392      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  b9&  of  fiery  rich  array 

For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of 
clay; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  craftsmen 
here, 

For  the  yo-heave-o,  and  the  heave  away,  and  the  sighing  sea- 
men's cheer ; 

When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far  from  love  and 
home, 

And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at  last ; 
A  shapely  one  he  is  and  strong  as  e'er  from  cat  was  cast. 
0  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep 

green  sea ! 
0  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold   such  sights  as 

thou] 
The  hoary  monsters'  palaces  !   methinks  what  joy  't  were 

now 

To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the  whales, 
And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their  scour- 
ging tails ! 

Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea-unicorn 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back  for  all  his  ivory 

horn; 

To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn, 
And   for  the  ghastly-grin ning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws  to 

scorn ; 
To  leap  down  on  the  Kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Norwegian 

isles 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles, 
Till,  snorting  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a  buffeting  the  far  astonished  shoals 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  393 

Of  his  back  browzing  ocean  calves ;  or,  haply  in  a  cove, 
Shell-strewn  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's  love, 
To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens ;  or,  hard  by  icy  lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent  upon  cerulean  sands. 

0  broad-armed  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can  equal 

thine  ] 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons  that  tugs  thy  cable 

line ; 

And  night  by  night 't  is  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,   the  giant  game  to 

play. 

But  shamer  of  our  little  sports  !  forgive  the  name  I  gave,  — 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy,  thine  office  is  to  save. 

0  lodger  in  the  sea-kings'  halls,  couldst  thou  but  understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side  and  who  the  dripping 

band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about  thee 

bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their  ancient 

friend,  — 
0,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger  steps 

round  thee, 
Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride,  thou  'dst  leap  within 

the  sea ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories,  who  left  the  pleasant  strand 
To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Fatherland, 
Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  churchyard 

grave 

So  freely  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave. 
0,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly  sung, 
Honor  him  for  their  memory,  whose  bones  he  goes  among! 


394      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

THE   FAIRY   THORN. 

AN  ULSTER  BALLAD. 

"  GET  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spinning-wheel ; 

For  your  father 's  on  the  hill,  and  your  mother  is  asleep  : 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we  '11  dance  a  highland  reel 
Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  't  was  thus  the  maidens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the  green ; 
And  Anna  laid  the  rock  and  the  weary  wheel  aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They  're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the  quiet  eve, 

Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle  bare ; 
The  heavy  sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song  they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air ; 

And  linking  hand  in  hand  and  singing  as  they  go,  • 

The  maids  along  the  hill-side  have  ta'en  their  fearless  way, 
Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan-trees  in  lonely  beauty  grow, 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  gray. 

The  Hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall  and  slim, 

Like  matron  with  her  twin  granddaughters  at  her  knee  ; 
The  rowan-berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  gray  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them  in  a  row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan  stem, 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds  they  go,  — 
0,  never  carolled  bird  like  them  ! 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  395 

But  solemn  is  the  silence  of  the  silvery  haze 

That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  repose, 
And  dreamily  the  evening  has  stilled  the  haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark  notes  from  the  sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the  open  shaw, 

Are  hushed  the  maiden's  voices,  as  cowering  down  they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 


For  from  the  air  above  and  the  grassy  ground  beneath, 
And  from  the  mountain-ashes    and    the  old  whitethorn 

between, 
A  power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through  their  beings 

breathe, 
And  they  sink  down  together  on  the  green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and,  stealing  side  by  side, 

They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their  drooping  necks  so  fair, 
Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms  to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasped  and  prostrate  all,  with  their  heads  together 

bowed, 

Soft  o'er  their  bosoms'  beating  —  the  only  human  sound  — 
They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air,  gliding  round. 

No  scream  can  any  raise,  no  prayer  can  any  say, 

But  wild,  wild  the  terror  of  the  speechless  three,  — 
For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently  away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 


396       THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  parting  locks  of  gold, 

And  the  curls  elastic  falling  as  her  head  withdraws ; 
They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced  arms  unfold, 
But  they  may  not  look  to  see  the  cause. 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment  lies 

Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and  perilous  amaze  ; 
And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quivering  eyes, 
Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise, 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  rolled  her  dewy  side, 

With  every  haunted  mountain  and  streamy  vale  below ; 
When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow  morning  tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 

And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends  in  vain,  — 
They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 


THE   FAIRY   WELL   OF   LAGNANAY. 

MOURNFULLY,  sing  mournfully !  — 

"  0,  listen,  Ellen,  sister  dear ! 
Is  there  no  help  at  all  for  me, 

But  only  ceaseless  sigh  and  tear  1 
Why  did  not  he,  who  left  me  here, 

With  stolen  hope  steal  memory  ] 
0,  listen,  Ellen,  sister  dear ! 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully  !) 

I  '11  go  away  to  Sleamish  hill 
I  '11  pluck  the  fairy  hawthorn-tree, 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  397 

And  let  the  spirits  work  their  will ; 

I  care  not  if  for  good  or  ill, 
So  they  but  lay  the  memory 

Which  all  my  heart  is  haunting  still. 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully!) 

The  Fairies  are  a  silent  race, 
And  pale  as  lily  flowers  to  see ; 

I  care  not  for  a  blanched  face, 

Nor  wandering  in  a  dreaming  place, 
So  I  but  banish  memory, — 

I  wish  I  were  with  Anna  Grace. 
(Mournfully,  sing  mournfully  !) 

"  Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !  "  — 

'T  was  thus  to  weeping  Ellen  Con, 
Her  sister  said  in  accents  low, 

Her  only  sister,  Una  bawn ; 

'T  was  in  their  bed  before  the  dawn, 
And  Ellen  answered,  sad  and  slow, 

"  0  Una,  Una,  be  not  drawn 
(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !) 

To  this  unholy  grief  I  pray, 
Which  makes  me  sick  at  heart  to  know, 

And  I  will  help  you  if  I  may ; 

—  The  Fairy  Well  of  Lagnanay  — 
Lie  nearer  me,  I  tremble  so,  — 

Una,  I  've  heard  wise  women  say 
(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !) 

That  if  before  the  dews  arise 
True  maiden  in  its  icy  flow 

With  pure  hand  bathe  her  bosom  thrice, 

Three  lady  brackens  pluck  likewise, 
And  three  times  round  the  fountain  go, 

She  straight  forgets  her  tears  and  sighs." 
(Hearken  to  my  tale  of  woe  !) 


398      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

All,  alas !  and  well  away  ! 

"  0  sister  Ellen,  sister  sweet, 
Come  with  me  to  the  hill  I  pray, 

And  I  will  prove  that  blessed  freet." 

They  rose  with  soft  and  silent  feet, 
They  left  their  mother  where  she  lay 

Their  mother  and  her  care  discreet, 
(All,  alas !  and  well  away  !) 

And  soon  they  reached  the  Fairy  Well, 
The  mountain's  eye,  clear,  cold,  and  gray, 

Wide  open  in  the  dreary  fell ; 

How  long  they  stood  't  were  vain  to  tell. 
At  last  upon  the  point  of  day, 

Bawn  Una  bares  her  bosom's  swell, 
(All,  alas !  and  well  away  !) 

Thrice  o'er  her  shrinking  breast  she  laves 
The  gliding  glance  that  will  not  stay 

Of  subtly-streaming  fairy  waves ; 

And  now  the  charmed  three  brackens  craves 
She  plucks  them  in  their  fringed  array ; 

Now  round  the  well  her  fate  she  braves. 
(All,  alas  !  and  well  away !) 

Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall ; 

Ellen  sees  her  face  —  the  rim  — 
Twice  and  thrice  and  that  is  all, 

Fount  and  hill  and  maiden  swim, 

All  together  melting  dim  ! 
"  Una,  Una,"  thou  may'st  call, 

Sister  sad,  but  lith  or  limb 
(Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall) 

Never  again  of  Una  bawn 
Where  now  she  walks  in  dreamy  hall 

Shall  eye  of  mortal  look  upon ; 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  399 

0,  can  it  be  the  guard  was  gone, 
That  better  guard  than  shield  or  wall  1 

Who  knows  on  earth  save  Jurlaugh  Daune  ? 
(Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall.) 

Behold  the  banks  are  green  and  bare, 
No  pit  is  here  wherein  to  fall ; 

Ay,  at  the  fount  you  well  may  stare, 

But  naught  save  pebbles  smooth  is  there, 
And  small  straws  twirling,  one  and  all. 

Hie  thee  home,  and  be  thy  prayer, 
Save  us  all  from  Fairy  thrall ! 


A  LANDSCAPE. 

FROM  "  CONGAL." 

THANKFUL-HEARTED  he  who  casts  abroad  his  gaze 
O'er  some  rich  tillage   country-side,  when   mellow  autumn 

days 
Gild  all  the  sheafy  foodful  stocks;  and,  broad  before  him 

spread,  — 
He  looking  landward  from  the  brow  of  some  great  sea-cape's 

head, 

Bray  or  Ben-Edar,  —  sees  beneath,  in  silent  pageant  grand, 
Slow  fields  of  sunshine  spread  o'er  fields  of  rich,  corn-bearing 

land; 
Red  glebe  and  meadow-margin  green,  commingling  to  the 

view, 
With  yellow  stubble,  browning  woods,  and  upland  tracts  of 

blue ;  — 
Then,  sated  with  the  pomp  of  fields,  turns,  seaward,  to  the 

verge 
Where,  mingling  with  the  murmuring  wash  made  by  the 

far-down  surge, 


400      THE   POETS  AND   POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Comes  up  the  clangorous  song  of  birds  unseen,  that,  low 

beneath, 
Poised  off  the  rock,  ply  under  foot ;  and,  'mid  the  blossoming 

heath, 
And  mint-sweet  herb,  that  loves  the  ledge  rare-aired,  at  ease 

reclined, 
Surveys  the  wide  pale-heaving  floor,   crisped  by  a  curling 

wind ; 
With  all  its  shifting,  shadowy  belts,  and  chasing  scopes  of 

green, 
Sun-strewn,    foam-freckled,    sail-embossed,    and    blackening 

squalls  between, 
And   slant,    cerulean-skirted    showers    that  with   a  drowsy 

sound, 
Heard   inward,  of  ebullient  waves,  stalk    all    the   horizon 

round ; 

And,  haply  being  a  citizen  just  'scaped  from  some  disease, 
That  long  has  held  him  sick  indoors,  now,  in  the  brine-fresh 

breeze, 

Health-salted,  bathes ;  and  says  the  while  he  breathes  reviv- 
ing bliss, 

"  I  am  not  good  enough,  0  God,  nor  pure  enough  for  this !  " 
Such  seemed  its  hues.     His  feet  were  set  in  fields  of  waving 

grain ; 

His  head,  above,  obscured  the  sun ;  all  round  the  leafy  plain 
Blackbird  and  thrush  piped  loud  acclaims;  in  middle-air, 

breast-high, 

The  lark  shrill  carolled;  overhead,  and  half-way  the  sky, 
Sailed  the  far  eagle ;  from  his  knees  down  dale  and  grassy 

steep, 

Thronged  the  dun,  mighty  upland  groves,  and   mountain- 
mottling  sheep, 

And  by  the  river  margins  green,  and  o'er  the  thy  my  meads 
Before  his  feet,  careered  at   large  the  slim-kneed,  slender 

steeds. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERGUSON.  401 


THE  WIDOW'S   CLOAK. 

THERE  's  a  widow  lady  worthy  of  a  word  of  kindly  tone 
From  all,  who  love  good  neighborhood  and  true  allegiance 

own 

To  motherly  humanity,  in  love  and  sorrow  tried, 
Who  lives,  some  season  of  the  year, 

Adown  Dee-side. 

To  her  sister  in  the  cottage,  to  the  Highland  hut,  comes  she, 
She  takes  the  old  wife  by  the  hand,  she  shares  her  cup  of  tea. 
She  loves  the  lowly  people,  —  years  of  life  have  taught  her 

well 
In  God's  great  household  they,  the  bulk 

Of  inmates  dwell. 

She   loves   the  Highland    nature,  and  the  Dalriad   deeps 

beyond, 

To  every  pressure  of  her  palm  the  Irish  hearts  respond. 
What  though  we  seldom  see  her  St.  Patrick's  Hall  within, 
The  Gael  her  presence  yearly  cheers 

Are  kith  and  kin. 

The  castle  of  Balmoral  stands  proudly  on  its  hill ; 
This  simple  widow  lady  has  a  finer  castle  still, 
Where  hill-big  keep  and  chapel  soar  up  the  southern  sky 
Above  the  woods  of  Windsor, 

And  Thames  swells  by. 

The  iron  castles  on  the  shore  that  sentry  Portsca  beach,  — 
The  iron  castles  on  the  sea,  their  guns  a  shipload  each, 
That  ride  at  Spithead  anchorage,  —  the  ordnance  great  and 

small 
Of  Woolwich  and  of  London  Tower,  — 

She  owns  them  all. 
26 


402      THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Ten  thousand  are  her  men-at-call,  that  ride  in  golden  spurs ; 
The  citied  margins  of  the  seas,  half  round  the  world,   are 

hers; 
And  mightiest  monarchs,  fain  to  sit  at  her  right  hand,  are 


For  she 's  the  queen  of  the  Three-joined  Realm,  — 

God  save  the  Queen ! 

And  sons  she  has  good  plenty,  and  daughters,  if  need  were, 
Of  issue  of  the  lawful  line,  to  sit  St.  Edward's  chair ; 
For  God  has  filled  the  quiver,  and  with  countenance  elate 
He  next  in  lawful  right  may  speak 

His  foe. in  gate. 

With  Denmark's  gracious  daughter,  who  leads   the   bright 

array,  — 
Our  darling,  —  ever   welcome,  —  as  flowers   that   come  in 

May,— 

God,  shield  the  precious  creature  beneath  Thy  angels'  wings, 
And  send  her  lovely  nature 

Down  lines  of  kings. 

Fine  men  the  princely  brothers  I  and  time  is  coming  when 
By  sea  and  land  they  all  may  show  that  they  are  manly  men ; 
Alert  at  clear-eyed  honor's  call  to  give  their  duty -day 
Afield,  on  deck,  in  battery,  — 

Come  who  come  may. 

Now,  mark,  you  kings  and  emperors,  who  rule  this  peopled 

ball, 
That  nourishes  us,  man  and  beast,  and  graveward  bears  us 

all,— 

The  blood  of  horses  and  of  men,  and  lives  of  men,  will  lie 
Main  heavy  on  the  souls  that  break 

Her  amity. 


SIR  SAMUEL  FERG-USON.  403 

Victoria's  sheltering  mantle  is  over  India  spread ; 

Who  dare  to  touch  the  garment's  hem,  look  out  for  men  in 

red  ; 
Look  out  for  gun  and  tumbrel  acrash  through  mound  and 

hedge, 
For  shot  and  steel  and  Sheffield  shear, 

Steel,  point  and  edge. 

The  fires  are  banked;  in  port  and  road  the  seaman-heart 

swells  large ; 

The  horses  from  the  Irish  fields  are  champing  for  the  charge; 
Stand  back !  keep  off !  the  changing  cheek  of  Peace  has  lost 

its  smile, 
And  grave  her  eyes,  and  grave  her  prayer 

To  Heaven  the  while. 

"  Maker,  Preserver  of  mankind,  and  Saviour  that  Thou  art, 
Assuage  the  rage  of  wrathful   men;  abate  their  haughty 

heart ; 

Or,  if  not  so  Thy  holy  will,  suppress  the  idle  sigh, 
And  God  Sabaoth  be  the  name 

We  know  thee  by." 


DENIS  FLORENCE  McCARTHY. 

DENIS  FLORENCE  McCARTHY,  who  is  distinguished 
in  general  literature  as  well  as  an  Irish  national  poet, 
was  born  in  Dublin  in  1 820.  His  father  was  a  tradesman, 
but  of  ancient  family,  and  his  descent  has  been  traced  to  the 
MacCauras,  or  MacCarthaighs,  kings  of  Desmond  or  South- 
western Munster.  McCarthy  was  educated  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, and  studied  for  the  bar.  On  the  establishment  of 
"  The  Nation,"  he  joined  the  staff  of  poetical  contributors, 
and  wrote  national  ballads  in  the  political  vein  of  Davis, 
Duffy,  and  McGee.  In  1846  he  was  called  to  the  bar,  but, 
owing  to  diffidence  and  hesitation  in  speech,  he  has  practised 
but  little,  and  devoted  himself  almost  entirely  to  literature. 
His  first  work,  a  compilation  of  Irish  ballads,  with  an  intro- 
duction and  some  original  contributions,  was  published  in 
1846;  and  in  1850  he  published  "Poems,  Ballads,  and 
Lyrics,"  containing  translations  from  nearly  all  the  modern 
languages  of  Europe,  as  well  as  original  poems.  When  the 
Irish  Catholic  University  was  established,  in  1857,  under 
the  presidency  of  Father  Newman,  McCarthy  was  appointed 
Professor  of  Poetry,  and  contributed  largely  to  the  Atlantis, 
the  University  periodical.  His  studies  have  been  directed 
much  toward  Spanish  literature,  and  he  has  translated  a 
number  of  Calderou's  dramas  into  English  assonante  verse. 
His  later  poetical  publications  have  been  "  Underglimpses, 
and  other  Poems,"  and  "The  Bell  Founder."  In  1871  a 


DENIS  FLORENCE  McCARTHY.  405 

yearly  pension  of  one  hundred  pounds  was  bestowed  upon 
him  for  his  literary  services.  His  latest  productions  have 
been  Centenary  Odes  to  O'Connell  and  Moore,  delivered 
at  the  celebrations  in  Dublin  in  1875  and  1879.  On  the 
latter  occasion  he  was  crowned  by  the  Lord  Mayor  Barring- 
ton  with  a  laurel  wreath  as  the  "Poet  Laureate  of  Ireland," 
a  sufficiently  ridiculous  ceremony,  for  which,  however,  he 
was  not  responsible. 

Mr.  McCarthy's  national  poetry  is  rather  didactic  than 
historical  or  dialectic,  with  a  few  exceptions,  such  as  the 
very  spirited  ballad  of  "  The  Foray  of  Con  O'Donnell,"  in 
which  the  portrait  of  the  ancient  Irish  wolf-dog  is  very 
admirable;  and  he  has  also  some  graphic  descriptions  of 
national  scenery.  He  has  a  fondness  for  intricate  and  what 
may  be  termed  assonante  metres,  which  are  sometimes  re- 
markably successful,  as  in  "  Waiting  for  the  May." 


WAITING   FOR  THE  MAY. 

AH  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May,  — 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles, 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  brambles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May,  — 
Longing  to  escape  from  study 
To  the  fair  young  face  and  ruddy, 


406       THE  POETS  AND   POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer's  day. 
Ah !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighiug, 

Sighing  for  the  May,  — 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 
Hopes  and  flowers  that  dead  or  dying 

All  the  winter  lay. 
Ah !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  May,  — 
Throbbing  for  the  seaside  billows, 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows, 

Where  in  laughter  and  in  sobbing 

Glide  the  streams  away. 
Ah !  my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting,  sad,  dejected,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings,  — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sun-bright  mornings,  — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 

Life  still  ebbs  away. 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 


DENIS  FLORENCE  McCARTHY.  407 


IRELAND,  1847. 

"They  are  dying!  they  are  dying!  where  the  golden  corn  is  growing; 
They  are  dying!  they  are  dying!  where  the  crowded  herds  are  lowing; 
They  are  gasping  for  existence,  where  the  streams  of  life  are  flowing; 
And  they  perish  of  the  plague,  where  the  breeze  of  health  is  blowing." 

GOD  of  justice  !  God  of  power ! 

Do  we  dream  1     Can  it  be, 
In  this  land,  in  this  hour, 

With  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
In  the  gladsome  month  of  May, 

When  the  young  lambs  play, 
When  Nature  looks  around 

On  her  waking  children  now, 
The  seed  within  the  ground, 

The  bud  upon  the  bough  1 
Is  it  right,  is  it  fair, 
That  we  perish  of  despair 
In  this  land,  on  this  soil, 

Where  our  destiny  is  set, 
Which  we  cultured  with  our  toil, 

And  watered  with  our  sweat  1 

We  have  ploughed,  we  have  sown, 
But  the  crop  was  not  our  own ; 
We  have  reaped,  but  harpy  hands 
Swept  the  harvest  from  our  lands ; 
We  were  perishing  for  food, 
When  lo  !   in  pitying  mood, 
Our  kindly  rulers  gave 
The  fat  fluid  of  the  slave, 
While  our  corn  filled  the  manger 
Of  the  war-horse  of  the  stranger. 


408      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

God  of  mercy  !  must  this  last  1 

Is  this  land  preordained, 
For  the  present,  and  the  past, 

And  the  future  to  be  chained,  — 

To  be  ravaged,  to  be  drained, 
To  be  robbed,  to  be  spoiled, 

To  be  hushed,  to  be  whipped, 

Its  soaring  pinions  clipt, 
And  its  every  effort  foiled  1 

Do  our  numbers  multiply 
But  to  perish  and  to  die  1 

Is  this  all  our  destiny  below,  — 
That  our  bodies,  as  they  rot, 
May  fertilize  the  spot, 

Where  the  harvests  of  the  stranger  grow  1 

If  this  be  indeed  our  fate, 

Far,  far  better  now,  though  late, 
That  we  seek  some  other  land,  and  try  some  other  zone ; 

The  coldest,  bleakest  shore 

Will  surely  yield  us  more 

Than  the  storehouse  of  the  stranger  that  we  dare  not  call  our 
own. 


THE    PARADISE    OF   BIRDS. 

FROM  THE  "VOYAGE  OF  ST.  BRANDAN." 

COLOR  and  form  may  be  conveyed  by  words, 
But  words  are  weak  to  tell  the  heavenly  strains 

That  from  the  throats  of  these  celestial  birds 

Rang  through  the  woods  and  o'er  the  echoing  plains 


DENIS  FLORENCE  McCARTHY.  409 

There  was  the  meadow-lark  with  voice  as  sweet, 
But  robed  in  richer  raiment  than  our  own ; 

And  as  the  moon  smiled  on  his  green  retreat, 
The  painted  nightingale  sang  out  alone. 

Words  cannot  echo  music's  winged  note, 

One  bird  alone  exhausts  their  utmost  power ; 
'T  is  that  strange  bird,  whose  many  voiced  throat 

Mocks  all  his  brethren  of  the  woodland  bower,  — 
To  whom  indeed  the  gift  of  tongues  is  given, 

The  musical  rich  tongues  that  fill  the  grove, 
Now  like  the  lark  dropping  his  notes  from  heaven, 

Now  cooing  the  soft  notes  of  the  dove. 

Oft  have  I  seen  him  scorning  all  control,  . 

Winging  his  arrowy  flight  rapid  and  strong, 
As  if  in  search  of  his  evanished  soul, 

Lost  in  the  gushing  ecstasy  of  song; 
And  as  I  wandered  on  and  upward  gazed, 

Half  lost  in  admiration,  half  in  fear, 
I  left  the  brothers  wondering  and  amazed, 

Thinking  that  all  the  choir  of  heaven  was  near. 

Was  it  a  revelation  or  a  dream  1 

That  these  bright  birds  as  angels  once  did  dwell 
In  heaven  with  starry  Lucifer  supreme, 

Half  sinned  with  him,  and  with  him  partly  fell ; 
That  in  this  lesser  paradise  they  stray, 

Float  through  its  air  and  glide  its  streams  along, 
And  that  the  strains  they  sing  each  happy  day 

Rise  up  to  God  like  morn  and  even  song. 


410      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

THE   IRISH   WOLF-HOUND. 

FROM  "  THE  FORAY  OF  CON  O'DONNELL." 

As  fly  the  shadows  o'er  the  grass, 

He  flies  with  step  as  light  and  sure, 
He  hunts  the  wolf  through  Tostan  pass, 

And  starts  the  deer  by  Lisanoure. 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells, 

0  Con !  has  not  .a  sweeter  sound 
Than  when  along  the  valley  swells 

The  cry  of  John  Mac  Donnell's  hound. 

His  stature  tall,  his  body  long, 

His  back  like  night,  his  breast  like  snow, 
His  fore-leg  pillar-like  and  strong, 

His  hind-leg  like  a  bended  bow ; 
Rough  curling  hair,  head  long  and  thin, 

His  ear  a  leaf  so  small  and  round  ; 
Not  Bran,  the  favorite  dog  of  Fin, 

Could  rival  John  Mac  Donnell's  hound. 


ALFRED    PERCIVAL    GRAVES. 

ONE  of  the  most  original  and  national,  as  the  youngest, 
of  the  modern  Irish  poets,  is  Mr.  Alfred  Percival  Graves. 
He  is  the  son  of  the  Bishop  of  Limerick,  of  the  disestablished 
Irish  Church,  and,  although  educated  in  and  now  a  resident 
of  England,  has  made  a  thorough  and  loving  study  of  Irish 
peasant  character,  and  the  indigenous  poetry  and  music  of 
Ireland.  The  locality  of  his  country  scenes  is  chiefly  in  the 
beautiful  region  of  the  mountains  of  Kerry,  but  his  charac- 
ters are  thoroughly  representative  of  the  universal  Celtic 
nature.  Many  of  his  lyrical  poems  first  appeared  in  the 
London  Spectator,  and  attracted  a  wide  attention  for  their 
remarkable  melody,  fine  finish,  and  graceful  and  delicate 
spirit.  These  were  collected  in  a  small  volume,  "  The  Songs 
of  Killarney,"  which  has  been  followed  by  a  larger  one, 
"  Irish  Songs  and  Ballads."  Mr.  Graves  has  been  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  Irish  music,  and  has  reproduced 
the  delicate  weirdness  and  wildness  of  its  spirit,  as  well  as 
its  more  prevailing  and  obvious  characteristics,  with  the 
utmost  perfection.  His  songs  are  not  only  written  to  the 
melody  of  the  airs,  but  they  reproduce  their  spirit,  as  is  felt 
at  once  by  those  familiar  with  Irish  music  in  such  examples 
as  "  The  Foggy  Dew,"  to  the  air  of  that  name,  "  Kitty 
Bhan,"  and  many  others  ;  and  their  inspiration  is  more  gen- 
uine and  perfect  than  those  of  any  other  Irish  poet  who  has 
endeavored  to  interpret  the  native  airs.  Mr.  Graves's  pic- 


412   THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

« 

tures  of  peasant  life  and  character  are  delicate  as  well  as 
true,  racy  rather  than  rank  of  the  soil,  and  with  a  fine  spirit 
of  humor  as  well  as  pathos.  The  turn  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion of  the  Celtic  peasant  is  reproduced,  as  well  as  the  dialect, 
and  their  faithfulness  and  delicacy  as  genre  pictures  are  per- 
fect. Mr.  Graves  has  also  done  to  some  extent  for  the  peas- 
ant poetry  of  Ireland  what  Burns  did  for  that  of  Scotland, 
that  is,  taken  the  country  ballads,  removed  their  clumsy 
expressions  and  vulgarisms,  stripped  them  of  excrescences, 
and  completed  them  where  imperfect,  at  the  same  time  leav- 
ing them  in  their  original  form,  and  as  far  as  possible  as  they 
were  written.  He  has  had  less  material  for  the  reason  that 
has  been  previously  explained,  that  the  native  poetry  of 
Ireland  in  the  English  language  is  less  in  quantity  and  qual- 
ity than  the  Celtic,  and  much  more  imperfect  in  expression ; 
but  the  few  flowers  of  poetry  which  Mr.  Graves  has  found 
have  been  trimmed  and  finished  to  perfect  expression.  Some 
translations  from  the  Celtic  are  also  added  to  Mr.  Graves's 
original  contributions  to  Irish  poetry,  and  his  whole  work 
is  the  most  national,  as  among  the  most  valuable,  of  the 
modern  poetry  of  Ireland. 


THE   BLACK   '46. 

A  RETROSPECT. 
OUT  away  across  the  river, 

Where  the  purple  mountains  meet, 
There  's  as  green  a  wood  as  iver 

Fenced  you  from  the  flam  in'  heat. 
And  opposite  up  the  mountain, 

Seven  ancient  cells  you  see, 
And,  below,  a  holy  fountain 

Sheltered  by  a  sacred  tree ; 


ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES.  413 

• 

While  between,  across  the  tillage, 

Two  boreens  full  up  wid  broom 
Draw  ye  down  into  a  village 

All  in  ruin  on  the  coom ; 
For  the  most  heart-breakin'  story 

Of  the  fearful  famine  year 
On  the  silent  wreck  before  ye 

You  may  read  charactered  clear. 
You  are  young,  too  young  for  ever 

To  rec'llect  the  bitter  blight, 
How  it  crep  across  the  river 

Unbeknownt  beneath  the  night ; 
Till  we  woke  up  in  the  mornin' 

And  beheld  our  country's  curse 
Wave  abroad  its  heavy  warnin' 

Like  the  white  plumes  of  a  hearse. 


To  our  gardens,  heavy-hearted, 

In  that  dreadful  summer's  dawn 
Young  and  ould  away  we  started 

Wid  the  basket  and  the  slan, 
But  the  heart  within  the  bosom 

Gave  one  leap  of  awful  dread 
At  each  darlin'  pratie  blossom, 

White  and  purple,  lyin'  dead. 
Down  we  dug,  but  only  scattered 

Poisoned  spuds  along  the  slope ; 
Though  each  ridge  in  vain  it  flattered 

Our  poor  hearts'  revivin'  hope. 
But  the  desperate  toil  we  'd  double 

On  into  the  evenin'  shades ; 
Till  the  earth  to  share  our  trouble 

Shook  beneath  our  groanin'  spades ; 


414      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

* 

Till  a  mist  across  the  meadows 

From  the  graveyard  rose  and  spread, 
And,  't  was  rumored,  ghostly  shadows, 

Phantoms  of  our  fathers  dead, 
Moved  among  us,  wildly  sharin* 

In  the  women's  sobs  and  sighs, 
And  our  stony,  still  despairin', 

Till  night  covered  up  the  skies. 
Then  we  knew  for  bitter  certain 

That  the  vinom-breathin'  cloud, 
Closin'  still  its  cruel  curtain, 

Surely  yet  would  be  our  shroud. 
And  the  fearful  sights  did  folly, 

Och  !  no  voice  could  rightly  tell, 
But  that  constant,  melancholy 

Murmur  of  the  passin'  bell ; 
Till  to  toll  it  none  among  us 

Strong  enough  at  last  was  found, 
And  a  silence  overhung  us 

Awfuller  nor  any  sound. 


THE  BLUE,   BLUE  SMOKE. 

0,  MANY  and  many  a  time 

In  the  dim  old  days, 
When  the  chapel's  distant  chime 

Pealed  the  hour  of  evening  praise, 
I  've  bowed  my  head  in  prayer ; 

Then  shouldered  scythe  or  bill, 
And  travelled  free  of  care 

To  my  home  across  the  hill ; 


ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES.  415 

* 

Whilst  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 

Softly  wreathing, 

Sweetly  breathing, 
Waved  my  thousand  welcomes  home. 

For  oft  and  oft  I  've  stood, 

Delighted,  in  the  dew, 
Looking  down  across  the  wood, 

Where  it  stole  into  my  view,  — 
Sweet  spirit  of  the  sod, 

Of  our  own  Irish  earth, 
Going  gently  up  to  God 

From  the  poor  man's  hearth. 
0,  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 
Softly  wreathing, 
Sweetly  breathing, 
Waved  my  thousand  welcomes  home  ! 

But  I  hurried  simply  on, 

When  Herself  from  the  door 
Came  swimming  like  a  swan 
Beside  the  Shannon  shore ; 
And  after  her  in  haste, 

On  pretty,  pattering  feet, 
Our  rosy  cherubs  raced 
Their  daddy  dear  to  meet ; 
While  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  my  cottage  in  the  coom, 
Softly  wreathing, 
Sweetly  breathing, 
Waved  my  thousand  welcomes  home. 


416      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

But  the  times  are  sorely  changed 

Since  those  dim  old  days, 
And  far,  far  I  've  ranged 

From  those  dear  old  ways, 
And  my  colleen's  golden  hair 

To  silver  all  has  grown, 
And  our  little  cherub  pair 
Have  children  of  their  own ; 
And  the  black,  black  smoke 
Like  a  heavy  funeral  plume, 
Darkly  wreathing, 
Fearful  breathing, 
Crowns  the  city  with  its  gloom. 

But 't  is  our  comfort  sweet, 

Through  the  long  toil  of  life, 
That  we  '11  turn  with  tired  feet 

From  the  noise  and  the  strife, 
And  wander  slowly  back 

In  the  soft  western  glow, 
Hand  in  hand  in  the  track 
That  we  trod  long  ago  ; 
Till  the  blue,  blue  smoke 
Of  our  cottage  in  the  coom, 
Softly  wreathing, 
Sweetly  breathing, 
Waves  our  thousand  welcomes  home. 


ALFEED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES.  417 


THE  FOGGY  DEW. 

OH  !  a  wan  cloud  was  drawn 

O'er  the  dim,  weeping  dawn, 
A&-to  Shannon's  side  I  returned  at  last ; 

And  the  heart  in  my  breast 

For  the  girl  I  loved  best 
Was  beating,  —  ah,  beating,  how  loud  and  fast 

While  the  doubts  and  the  fears 

Of  the  long  aching  years 
Seemed  mingling  their  voices  with  the  moaning  flood ; 

Till  full  in  my  path, 

Like  a  wild  water-wraith, 
My  truelove's  shadow  lamenting  stood. 

But  the  sudden  sun  kissed 

The  cold,  cruel  mist 
Into  dancing  showers  of  diamond  dew ; 

The  dark-flowing  stream 

Laughed  back  to  his  beam, 
And  the  lark  soared  singing  aloft  in  the  blue ; 

While  no  phantom  of  night, 

But  a  form  of  delight, 
Ran  with  arms  outspread  to  her  darling  boy ; 

And  the  girl  I  love  best 

On  my  wild  throbbing  breast 
Had  her  thousand  treasures  with  a  cry  of  joy. 


27 


418      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


WHEN  I  ROSE  IN  THE  MORNING. 

WHEN  I  rose  in  the  morning, 

My  heart  full  of  woe, 
I  implored  all  the  song-birds  * 

Why  their  mates  on  the  bough 
To  their  pleading  gave  heeding, 

While  Kate  still  said,  "  No"; 
But  they  made  no  kind  answer 

To  a  heart  full  of  woe. 

Till  the  wood-quest  at  noon, 

From  the  forest  below, 
He  taught  me  his  secret, 

So  tender  and  low, 
Of  stealing  fond  feeling, 

With  sweet  notes  of  woe, 
Coo-cooing  so  soft 

Through  the  green  leafy  row. 

The  long  shadows  fell, 

And  the  sun  he  sank  low, 
And  again  I  was  pleading 

In  the  mild  evening  glow  j 
"Ah!  Kitty,  have  pity!" 

Then  how  could  she  say,  "No ! " 
So  for  ever  I  'm  free 

From  a  heart  full  of  woe. 


ALFRED  PERCIYAL  GRATES.  419 


KITTY  BHAN. 

BEFORE  the  first  ray  of  blushing  day, 
Who  should  come  by  but  Kitty  Bhan, 

With  her  cheek  like  the  rose  on  a  bed  of  snows, 
And  her  bosom  beneath  like  the  sailing  swan. 
I  looked  and  looked  till  my  heart  was  gone. 

With  the  foot  of  the  fawn  she  crossed  the  lawn, 
Half  confiding  and  half  in  fear ; 

And  her  eyes  of  blue  they  thrilled  me  through, 
One  blessed  minute ;  then,  like  the  deer, 
Away  she  darted,  and  left  me  here. 

O  sun,  you  are  late  at  your  golden  gate, 

For  you  've  nothing  to  show  beneath  the  sky 

To  compare  to  the  lass,  who  crossed  the  grass 
Of  the  shamrock  field,  ere  the  dew  was  dry, 
And  the  glance  she  gave  me  as  she  went  by. 


FAN   FITZGERL. 

WIRRA,  wirra  !  Ologone  ! 

Can't  ye  lave  a  lad  alone, 
Till  he 's  proved  there 's  no  tradition  left  of  any  other  girl — 

Not  even  Trojan  Helen, 

In  beauty  all  excellin'  — 
Who 's  been  up  to  half  the  devilment  of  Fan  FitzgerH 

Wid  her  brows  of  silky  black, 
Arched  above  for  the  attack, 
Her  eyes  that  dart  such  azure  death  on  poor  admirin'  man ; 


420      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Masther  Cupid,  point  your  arrows, 
From  this  out,  agin'  the  the  sparrows, 
For  you  're  bested  at  Love's  archery  by  young  Miss  Fan. 

See  what  showers  of  goolden  thread 

Lift  and  fall  upon  her  head. 
The  likes  of  such  a  trammel  net  at  say  was  never  spread ; 

For  whin  accurately  reckoned, 

'T  was  computed  that  each  second 
Of  her  curls  has  cot  a  Kerryman,  and  kilt  him  dead. 

Now  mintion,  if  you  will, 

Brandon  Mount  and  Hungry  Hill, 
Or  Magillicuddy's  Reeks,  renowned  for  cripplin'  all  they  can; 

Still  the  country  side  confisses 

None  of  all  its  precipices 
Cause  a  quarter  of  the  carnage  of  the  nose  of  Fan. 

But  your  shatthered  hearts  suppose 

Safely  steered  apast  her  nose, 
She 's  a  current  and  a  reef  beyant  to  wreck  them  rovin'  ships. 

My  maning  it  is  simple, 

For  that  current  is  her  dimple, 
And  the  cruel  reef 't  will  coax  ye  to 's  her  coral  lips. 

I  might  inform  ye  further 

Of  her  bosom's  snowy  murther, 
And  an  ankle  ambuscadin' through  her  gown's  delightful  whirl. 

But  what  need,  when  all  the  village 

Has  forsook  its  peaceful  tillage, 
And  flown  to  war  and  pillage,  all  for  Fan  Fitzgerl. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  DESERTER'S  MEDITATION. 
JOHN  PHILPOT  CURKAN. 

After  the  fashion  of  former  generations  of  English  statesmen,  Curran 
wrote  occasional  verses  in  what  was  called  the  classic  vein  of  humor  and 
sentiment,  with  trim  metre,  artificial  fancy,  and  highly  polished  dic- 
tion ;  but  in  some  of  them,  as  in  his  orations,  there  was  a  vein  of  gen- 
uine feeling  beneath  the  artificial  tropes  and  highly  wrought  rhetoric, 
and  an  undertone  of  melancholy  which  belonged  to  his  own  nature  in 
spite  of  his  spontaneous  humor  and  brilliant  wit,  and  thoroughly  char- 
acteristic of  the  race  of  which  he  was  one  of  the  most  perfect  types  in 
genius  and  temperament.  In  his  biography,  by  his  son,  it  is  said  that 
the  occasion  of  "The  Deserter's  Meditation"  was  his  meeting  away- 
faring  soldier  by  the  roadside,  and  taking  him  into  his  carriage.  Ascer- 
taining that  he  was  a  deserter,  Curran  asked  him  whether,  in  event  of 
capture,  he  would  spend  the  brief  time  before  being  shot  in  penitence 
and  fasting,  or  drown  his  sorrows  in  a  glass.  The  song  is  adapted  to  a 
plaintive  Irish  air,  which  caught  the  ear  of  Thackeray,  who  had  a  great 
fondness  for  Irish  songs,  and  frequently  alludes  to  them.  In  "The 
Newcomes"  he  says,  "And  Mark  Brent  sang  the  sad,  generous  refrain 
of  the  Deserter." 

IF  sadly  thinking, 

With  spirits  sinking, 
Could  more  than  drinking  my  cares  compose, 

A  cure  for  sorrow 

From  sighs  I  'd  borrow, 
And  hope  to-morrow  would  end  my  woes. 


422       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

But  as  in  wailing 

There 's  naught  availing, 
And  Death  unfailing  will  strike  the  blow, 

Then  for  that  reason, 

And  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go. 

To  joy  a  stranger, 

A  way-worn  ranger, 
In  every  danger  my  course  I  Ve  run ; 

Now  hope  all  ending, 

And  death  befriending, 
His  last  ending,  my  cares  are  done. 

No  more  a  rover, 

Or  hapless  lover, 
My  griefs  are  over,  —  my  glass  runs  low ; 

Then  for  that  reason, 

And  for  a  season, 
Let  us  be  merry  before  we  go. 


CUSHLA-MA-CHREE. 
JOHN  PHILPOT  CTJRRAN. 

DEAR  Erin,  how  sweetly  thy  green  bosom  rises, 

An  emerald  set  in  the  ring  of  the  sea, 
Each  blade  of  thy  meadows  my  faithful  heart  prizes, 

Thou  Queen  of  the  "West,  the  world's  cushla-ma-chree.* 
Thy  gates  open  wide  to  the  poor  and  the  stranger, 

There  smiles  hospitality,  hearty  and  free ; 

*  Cushla-ma-chree,  Pulse  of  my  heart. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  423 

Thy  friendship  is  seen  in  the  moment  of  danger, 
And  the  wanderer  is  welcomed  with  cushla-ma-chree. 

Thy  sons  they  are  brave,  but,  the  battle  once  over, 

In  brotherly  peace  with  their  foes  they  agree, 
And  the  roseate  cheeks  of  thy  daughters  discover 

The  soul-speaking  flush  that  says  cashla-ma-chree. 
Then  flourish  forever,  my  dear  native  Erin, 

While  sadly  I  wander  an  exile  from  thee, 
A-nd  firm  as  thy  mountains,  no  injury  fearing, 

May  Heaven  defend  its  own  cushla-ma-chree. 


THE  WAKE  OF  WILLIAM  ORR. 
DB.  DRENNAN. 

Dr.  Drennan,  the  author  of  this  vigorous  lyric,  was  one  of  the  promi- 
nent writers  among  the  United  Irishmen,  and  was  prosecuted  for  sedi- 
tion in  1794,  but  acquitted,  and  remained  in  Ireland  until  his  death, 
which  occurred  at  Belfast,  in  1820,  at  the  age  of  sixty-three.  "William 
Orr  was  a  young  Presbyterian  farmer  of  Antrim,  who  was  convicted,  in 
1797,  of  administering  the  United  Irish  oath  to  a  private  soldier,  and 
executed  after  the  government  had  once  granted  a  reprieve  on  conclu- 
sive evidence  that  the  jury  had  been  made  drunk  with  whiskey,  and 
that  the  principal  witness  had  perjured  himself.  His  execution  caused 
great  excitement  and  indignation. 

HERE  our  murdered  brother  lies ; 
Wake  him  not  with  woman's  cries ; 
Mourn  the  way  that  manhood  ought ; 
Sit  in  silent  trance  of  thought. 

Write  his  merits  on  your  mind ; 
Morals  pure  and  manners  kind ; 
In  his  head,  as  on  a  hill, 
Virtue  placed  her  citadel. 


424      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Why  cut  off  in  palmly  youth  1 
Truth  he  spoke,  and  acted  truth. 
Countrymen,  UNITE,  he  cried, 
And  died  for  what  his  Saviour  died. 

God  of  Peace  and  God  of  Love, 
Let  it  not  thy  vengeance  move, 
Let  it  not  thy  lightnings  draw, 
A  nation  guillotined  by  law. 

Hapless  nation  !  rent  and  torn, 
Thou  wert  early  taught  to  mourn, 
Warfare  of  six  hundred  years, 
Epochs  marked  with  blood  and  tears ! 

Hunted  through  thy  native  grounds, 
Or  flung,  reward,  to  human  hounds, 
Each  one  pulled  and  tore  his  share, 
Heedless  of  thy  deep  despair. 

Hapless  nation,  hapless  land ! 
Heap  of  uncementing  sand ; 
Crumbled  by  a  foreign  weight, 
And,  by  worse,  domestic  hate. 

God  of  mercy  !  God  of  peace  ! 
Make  the  mad  confusion  cease ; 
O'er  the  mental  chaos  move, 
Through  it  speak  the  light  of  love. 

Monstrous  and  unhappy  sight ! 
Brothers'  blood  will  not  unite ; 
Holy  oil  and  holy  water 
Mix  and  fill  the  world  with  slaughter. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  425 

Who  is  she  with  aspect  mild  ? 
The  widowed  mother  with  her  child, 
Child  new  stirring  in  the  womb, 
Husband  waiting  for  the  tomb. 

Angel  of  this  sacred  place, 
Calm  her  soul  and  whisper  peace ; 
Cord  or  axe  or  guillotine 
Make  the  sentence,  not  the  sin. 

Here  we  watch  our  brother's  sleep ; 
Watch  with  us,  but  do  not  weep ; 
Watch  with  us  through  dead  of  night, 
But  expect  the  morning  light; 

Conquer  fortune,  —  persevere  ! 
Lo !  it  breaks,  the  morning  clear ! 
The  cheerful  COCK  *  awakes  the  skies  ; 
The  day  is  come,  —  arise  !  arise ! 


THE  IRISHMAN. 

JAMES  ORR. 

James  Orr  was  a  journeyman  weaver,  and  one  of  the  United  Irishmen 
who  joined  in  the  insurrection  in  Ulster,  and  was  compelled  to  go  into 
exile.  This  is  the  only  specimen  of  his  verse  that  is  extant,  and  has 
long  been  a  favorite  for  its  manly  spirit. 

THE  savage  loves  his  native  shore, 

Though  rude  the  soil  and  chill  the  air ; 

Then  well  may  Erin's  sons  adore 

The  isle  which  Nature  formed  so  fair. 

*  An  allusion  to  the  expected  aid  from  France. 


426      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

What  flood  reflects  a  shore  so  sweet 
As  Shannon  great  or  pastoral  Bann  1 

Or  who  a  friend  or  foe  can  meet 
So  generous  as  an  Irishman  ? 

His  hand  is  rash,  his  heart  is  warm, 

But  honesty  is  still  his  guide ; 
None  more  repents  a  deed  of  harm, 

And  none  forgives  with  nobler  pride ; 
He  may  be  duped,  but  won't  be  dared, 

More  fit  to  practice  than  to  plan ; 
He  dearly  earns  his  poor  reward, 

And  spends  it  like  an  Irishman. 

If  strange  or  poor,  for  you  he  '11  pay, 

And  guide  to  where  you  safe  may  be ; 
If  you  're  his  guest,  while  e'er  you  stay 

His  cottage  holds  a  jubilee. 
His  inmost  soul  he  will  unlock, 

And  if  he  may  your  secrets  scan, 
Your  confidence  he  scorns  to  mock, 

For  faithful  is  an  Irishman. 

By  honor  bound  in  woe  and  weal, 

Whate'er  she  bids,  he  dares  to  do ; 
Try  him  with  bribes,  they  won't  prevail ; 

Prove  him  in  fire,  you  '11  find  him  true. 
He  seeks  not  safety,  —  let  his  post 

Be  where  it  ought,  in  danger's  van ; 
And  if  the  field  of  fame  be  lost, 

It  won't  be  by  an  Irishman. 

Erin,  loved  land  !  from  age  to  age 

Be  thou  more  great  and  famed  and  free ; 


MISCELLANEOUS.  427 

May  peace  be  thine,  or  shouldst  thou  wage 

Defensive  war,  cheap  victory  ! 
May  plenty  bloom  in  every  field 

Which  gentle  breezes  softly  fan, 
And  cheerful  smiles  serenely  gild 

The  home  of  every  Irishman  ! 


KATHLEEN  O'MORE. 

GEORGE  NUGENT  REYNOLDS. 

This  simple  and  once  very  popular  old  song  was  written  by  George 
Nugent  Reynolds,  one  of  the  literary  members  of  the  United  Irishmen, 
and  who  was  chiefly  noted  on  account  of  a  claim  made  after  his  death 
that  he  was  the  author  of  Campbell's  "Exile  of  Erin,"  which  was  suf- 
ficiently disproved. 

MY  love,  still  I  think  that  I  see  her  once  more, 
But,  alas  !  she  has  left  me  her  loss  to  deplore,  — 
My  own  little  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

Her  hair  glossy  black,  her  eyes  were  dark  blue, 
Her  color  still  changing,  her  smile  ever  new,  — 
So  pretty  was  Kathleen,  my  sweet  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

She  milked  the  dun  cow,  that  ne'er  offered  to  stir,  — 
Though  wicked  to  all,  it  was  gentle  to  her,  — 

So  kind  was  my  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

She  sat  at  the  door  one  cold  afternoon, 
To  hear  the  wind  blow  and  to  gaze  at  the  moon,  — 
So  pensive  was  Kathleen,  my  poor  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 


428       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Cold  was  the  night  breeze  that  sighed  round  her  bower, 
It  chilled  my  poor  Kathleen  who  drooped  from  that  hour ; 
And  I  lost  my  poor  Kathleen,  my  own  little  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 

The  bird  of  all  birds  that  I  love  the  best 
Is  the  robin  that  in  the  churchyard  builds  his  nest,  — 
For  he  seems  to  watch  Kathleen,  hops  lightly  o'er  Kathleen, 
My  Kathleen  O'More. 


MOLLY    ASTORE. 
RIGHT  HON.  GEOKGE  OGLE. 

The  Right  Hon.  George  Ogle  was  a  prominent  politician  and  member 
of  Parliament  at  the  time  of  the  Union,  representing  the  city  of  Dublin 
in  1799.  He  was  high-spirited  as  well  as  patriotic,  fought  several  duels, 
and  voted  consistently  against  the  Union.  "  Molly  Astore "  enjoyed 
great  popularity  in  its  day,  and  was  addressed  to  Miss  Moore,  who  after- 
ward became  Mrs.  Ogle. 

As  down  by  Banna's  banks  I  strayed 

One  evening  in  May, 
The  little  birds  in  blithest  notes 

Made  vocal  every  spray. 
They  sang  their  little  notes  of  love, 

They  sang  them  o'er  and  o'er. 
Ah,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge* 

My  Molly  Astore  ! 

The  daisy  pied  and  all  the  sweets 

The  dawn  of  Nature  yields, 
The  primrose  pale  and  violet  blue, 

Lay  scattered  o'er  the  fields. 

*  Love  of  my  heart,  —  my  young  girl,  —  Molly,  my  treasure. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  429 

Such  fragrance  in  the  bosom  lies 

Of  her  whom  I  adore. 
Ah,  gra-ma-ckree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  Astore  ! 

I  laid  me  down  upon  a  bank, 

Bewailing  my  sad  fate, 
That  doomed  me  thus  the  slave  of  love 

And  cruel  Molly's  hate ; 
How  can  she  break  the  honest  heart 

That  wears  her  in  its  core  1 
Ah,  gra-ma-cliree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  Astore  / 

You  said  you  loved  me,  Molly  dear ! 

Ah,  why  did  I  believe  ? 
Yet  who  could  think  such  tender  words 

Were  meant  but  to  deceive. 
That  love  was  all  I  asked  on  earth,  — 

Nay,  Heaven  could  give  no  more. 
All,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  Astore  ! 

0,  had  I  all  the  flocks  that  graze 

On  yonder  yellow  hill, 
Or  lowed  for  me  the  numerous  herds 

That  yon  green  pastures  fill, 
With  her  I  love  I'  d  gladly  share 

My  kine  and  fleecy  store. 
Ah,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  Astore  ! 

Two  turtle  doves  above  my  head 

Sat  courting  on  a  bough, 
I  envied  them  their  happiness 

To  see  them  bill  and  coo. 


430      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY   OF  IRELAND. 

Such  fondness  once  for  me  was  shown, 

But  now,  alas  !  't  is  o'er. 
Ah,  gra-ma-chree,  ma  colleen  oge, 

My  Molly  Astore  ! 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  Molly  dear, 

Thy  loss  I  e'er  shall  moan  ; 
Whilst  life  remains  in  this  fond  heart, 

'T  will  beat  for  thee  alone. 
Though  thou  art  false,  may  Heaven  on  thee 

Its  choicest  blessings  pour, 
Ak,  gra-ma-ckree,  ma  colleen  oget 

My  Molly  Astore  ! 


THE    MAIDEN    CITY. 

CHARLOTTE  ELIZABETH. 

This  very  spirited  Orange  song  is  by  Mrs.  Charlotte  E.  Tonna,  who 
published  "The  Siege  of  Deny,"  "  Judah's  Lion,"  and  several  ardently 
Protestant  novels,  under  the  nom  de plume  of  "  Charlotte  Elizabeth." 

WHERE  Foyle  his  swelling  waters 

Rolls  northward  to  the  main, 
There,  queen  of  Erin's  daughters, 

Fair  Derry  fixed  her  reign ; 
A  holy  temple  crowned  her, 

And  commerce  graced  her  street, 
•     A  rampart  wall  was  round  her, 

The  river  at  her  feet ; 
And  here  she  sat  alone,  boys, 

And,  looking  from  the  hill, 
Vowed  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 

Should  be  a  Maiden  still. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  431 

From  Antrim  crossing  over, 

In  famous  eighty-eight, 
A  plumed  and  belted  lover 

Came  to  the  Ferry  Gate. 
She  summoned  to  defend  her 

Our  sires,  —  a  beardless  race,  — 
They  shouted,  No  SURRENDER  ! 

And  slammed  it  in  his  face. 
Then  in  a  quiet  tone,  boys, 

They  told  him  't  was  their  will 
That  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 

Should  be  a  Maiden  still. 

Next,  crushing  all  before  him, 

A  kingly  wooer  came  ; 
(The  royal  banner  o'er  him 

Blushed  crimson  deep  for  shame ;) 
He  showed  the  Pope's  commission, 

Nor  dreamed  to  be  refused ; 
She  pitied  his  condition, 

But  begged  to  stand  excused. 
In  short,  the  fact  is  known,  boys, 

She  chased  him  from  the  hill, 
For  the  Maiden  on  the  throne,  boys, 

Would  be  a  Maiden  still. 

On  our  brave  sires  descending, 

'T  was  then  the  tempest  broke, 
Their  peaceful  dwellings  rending, 

'Mid  blood  and  flame  and  smoke. 
That  hallowed  grave-yard  yonder, 

Swells  with  the  slaughtered  dead,  — 
0  brothers,  pause  and  ponder ! 

It  was  for  us  they  bled ; 


432       THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

And  while  their  gifts  we  own,  boys, 
The  fane  that  tops  the  hill, 

0,  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 
Shall  be  a  Maiden  still ! 

Nor  wily  tongue  shall  move  us, 

Nor  tyrant  arm  affright ; 
We  '11  look  to  One  above  us, 

Who  ne'er  forsook  the  right ; 
Who  will  may  crouch  and  tender 

The  birthright  of  the  free, 
But,  brothers,  No  SURRENDER, 

No  compromise  for  me  ! 
We  want  no  barrier  stone,  boys, 

No  gates  to  guard  the  hill, 
Yet  the  Maiden  on  her  throne,  boys, 

Shall  be  a  Maiden  still. 


LAMENT  OF   THE  IRISH   EMIGRANT. 

LADY  DUFFERIN. 

One  of  the  sweetest,  most  natural,  and  deservedly  popular  of  all  Irish 
songs,  "The  Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant,"  was  written  by  Helen  Se- 
lina,  Lady  Dufferin,  granddaughter  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  and 
sister  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  and  whose  son  has  been  so  favorably 
known  in  this  country  as  the  accomplished  and  popular  Governor- 
General  of  Canada.  Lady  Dufforin's  songs  are  few,  and  have  never 
been  published  in  a  volume  ;  but  this  is  one  of  the  most  widely  known 
in  the  English  language. 

I  *M  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  433 

The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

The  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath  warm  on  my  cheek, 
And  I  still  keep  listening  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near,  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary,  — 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest,  — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends  j 
But,  0,  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends  ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride ; 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 
That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
28 


434      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

'And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone  j 
There  was  comfort  ever  in  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow,  — - 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile, 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ! 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore,  — 
0,  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more ! 

I  'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary  kind  and  true ; 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darlin', 

In  the  land  I  'm  goin'  to. 
They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there, 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  tunes  as  fair. 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods, 

I  '11  sit  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  bright  May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  435 


THE  WOODS   OF   CAILLINO. 

"The  Song  of  the  Irish  Emigrant  in  America,"  or  "The  "Woods  of 
Caillino,"  was  written  by  Mrs.  Ellen  Fitzsimon,  the  eldest  of  the  daugh- 
ters of  Daniel  O'Connell,  all  of  whom  were  remarkable  for  their  beauty 
and  accomplishments.  She  is  now  the  widow  of  the  late  Christopher 
Fitzsimon,  M.  P.,  of  Clencullen,  County  Dublin,  and  is  a  resident  of 
the  city  of  Dublin.  The  poem  is  included  in  "Darrynane,  and  Other 
Poems,"  published  in  1863. 

MY  heart  is  heavy  in  my  breast,  my  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 
My  memory  is  wandering  back  to  long  departed  years,  — 
To  those  bright  days  long,  long  ago, 
When  naught  I  dreamed  of  sordid  care  or  worldly  woe, 
But  roamed,  a  gay,  light-hearted  boy,  the  woods  of  Caillino. 

There,  in  the  spring-time  of  my  life  and  spring-time  of  the 

year, 
I  Ve  watched  the  snowdrop  start  from  earth,  the  first  young 

buds  appear, 

The  sparkling  stream  o'er  pebbles  flow, 
The  modest  violet  and  golden  primrose  grow, 
Within  thy  deep  and  mossy  dells,  beloved  Caillino. 

'T  was  there  I  wooed  my  Mary  Dhuv  and  won  her  for  my 

bride, 
Who  bore  me  three  fair  daughters  and  four  sons,  my  age's 

pride ; 

Though  cruel  fortune  was  our  foe, 
And  steeped  us  to  the  lips  in  bitter  want  and  woe, 
Yet  cling  our  hearts  to  those  sad  days  we  passed  near  Caillino. 

At  length,  by  misery  bowed  to  earth,  we  left  our  native  strand, 
And  crossed  the  wide  Atlantic  to  this  free  and  happy  land ; 


436      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

Though  toils  we  had  to  undergo, 

Yet  soon  content  and  happy  peace  't  was  ours  to  know, 

And  plenty  such  as  never  blessed  our  hearts  near  Caillino. 

And  Heaven  a  blessing  has  bestowed  more  precious  far  than 

wealth, 
Has  spared  us  to  each  other,  full  of  years,  yet  strong  in 

health; 

Across  the  threshold  when  we  go, 
We  see  our  children's  children  round  us  grow, 
Like  sapling  oaks  within  thy  woods,  far  distant  Caillino. 

Yet  sadness  clouds  our  hearts  to  think  that,  when  we  are  no 

more, 

Our  bones  must  find  a  resting-place  far,  far  from  Erin's  shore ; 
For  us,  no  funeral,  sad  and  slow, 
Within  the  ancient  abbey's  burial  mound  will  go,  — 
No,  we  must  slumber  far  from  home,  far,  far  from  Caillino. 

Yet,  0,  if  spirits  ere  can  leave  the  appointed  place  of  rest, 

Once  more  will  I  revisit  thee,  dear  Isle  that  I  love  best ! 

O'er  thy  green  vales  will  hover  slow, 

And  many  a  tearful  parting  blessing  will  bestow 

On  all,  —  but  most  of  all,  on  thee,  beloved  Caillino  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS.  437 

THE  BURIAL. 

EEV.  JAMES  MILLS. 

This  poem,  whose  author  is  not  otherwise  known,  gives  a  graphic 
description  of  the  old  custom  of  keening  in  front  of  the  coffin,  as  the 
corpse  was  borne  along  the  country  road  to  the  grave. 

A  FAINT  breeze  is  playing  with  flowers  on  the  hill, 
And  the  blue  vault  of  summer  is  cloudless  and  still ; 
And  the  vale  with  the  wild  bloom  of  nature  is  gay, 
And  the  far  hills  are  breathing  a  sorrowful  lay. 

As  winds  on  the  clairseach's  *  sad  chords  when  they  stream, 
As  the  voice  of  the  dead  on  the  mourner's  dark  dream, 
Far  away,  far  away  from  gray  distance  it  breaks, 
First  known  to  the  breast  by  the  sadness  it  wakes. 

Now  lower,  now  louder  and  longer  it  mourns ; 
Now  faintly  it  falls,  and  now  fitful  returns ; 
Now  near,  and  now  nearer,  it  swells  on  the  ear, 
The  wild  ululu,  the  death  song,  is  near. 

With  slow  steps,  sad  burden,  and  wild  uttered  wail, 
Maid,  matron,  and  cotter  wind  up  from  the  vale ; 
And  loud  lamentations  salute  the  gray  hill, 
Where  their  fathers  are  sleeping,  the  silent  and  still. 

Wild,  wildly  that  wail  ringeth  back  on  the  air, 
From  that  lone  place  of  graves,  as  if  spirits  were  there  j 
O'er  the  silent,  the  still,  and  the  cold  they  deplore, 
They  weep  for  the  tearless,  whose  sorrows  are  o'er. 

*  Clairseach,  harp. 


438      THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 


DANCE  LIGHT,  FOR  MY  HEART  IT  LIES  UNDER 
YOUR  FEET,   LOVE. 

JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER. 

Dr.  Johto  Francis  "Waller,  a  resident  of  Dublin,  is  the  author  of  a 
considerable  number  of  poems  and  essays,  in  which  the  Irishism  is 
rather  artificial,  dwelling  upon  puns  and  conceits  after  the  style  of 
Lover  ;  but  this  and  "  The  Spinning- Wheel  Song"  are  really  successful, 
in  spite  of  their  evident  artificiality.  The  air  is  the  emphatic  and 
joyous  one  of  "Huish  the  Cat  from  under  the  Table,"  which  the  song 
fits  very  closely. 

"  AH,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that  wheel ! 

Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from  spinning ; 
Come  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sj^camore-tree, 

Half  the  parish  is  there  and  the  dance  is  beginning. 
The  sun  has  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest  moon 

Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew-whitened  valley ; 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft  loving  things, 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shaded  alley." 

With  a  blush  and  a  smile,  Kitty  rose  up  the  while, 

Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her  hair,  glancing : 
'T  is  hard  to  refuse,  when  a  young  lover  sues,  — 

So  she  could  n't  but  choose  to  go  off  to  the  dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are  seen, 

Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of  his  choosing ; 
And  Pat  without  fail  leads  out  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  — 

Somehow,  when  he  asked,  she  ne'er  thought  of  refusing. 

Now  Felix  Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his  knee, 

And  with  nourish  so  free  sets  each  couple  in  motion ; 

With  a  cheer  and  a  bound  the  lads  patter  the  ground,  — 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on  the  ocean. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  439 

Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose,  feet  light  as  the  doe's, 
Now  coyly  retiring,  now  boldly  advancing,  — 

Search  the  world  all  around,  from  the  sky  to  the  ground, 
No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an  Irish  lass  dancing. 

Sweet  Kate  !  who  could  view  your  bright  eyes  of  deep  blue, 

Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark  lashes  so  mildly,  — 
Your  fair-turned  arm,  heaving  breast,  rounded  form,  — 

Nor  feel  his  heart  warm  and  his  pulses  throb  wildly  1 
Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  depart, 

Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful  yet  sweet  love ; 
The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries,  with  a  sigh, 

"Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under  your  feet,  love  !  " 


THE   SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 
JOHN  FRANCIS  WALLER. 

MELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning ; 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning ; 

Bent  o'er  the  fire  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 

Is  croaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting : 

"  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." 

"  'T  is  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping." 

"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 

"  'T  is  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dying." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's  stirring 

Sprightly  and  lightly  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

"  What 's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  window,  I  wonder  1 " 
"  'T  is  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under." 


440      THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IRELAND. 

"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your  stool  on, 
And  singing  all  wrong  the  old  song  of  the  Coolim  ? " 
There's  a  form  at  the  casement,  —  the  form  of  her  truelove,  — 
And  he  whispers  with  face  bent,  "  I  'm  waiting  for  you,  love  : 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly ; 
We  '11  rove  in  the  grove,  while  the  moon 's  shining  brightly." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's  stirring ; 

Sprightly  and  lightly  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden's  singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her  fingers, 
Steals  up  from  the  seat,  —  longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers ; 
A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother, 
Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with  the  other, 
Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round, 
Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound ; 
Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 
The  maid  steps,  then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Slower  —  and  slower  —  and  slower  the  wheel  swings; 

Lower  —  and  lower  —  and  lower  the  reel  rings ; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stopped  their  ringing  and 
moving, 

Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moonlight  are 
roving. 


MISCELLANEOUS.  441 


THE   IKISH   WIDOW'S   MESSAGE  TO   HER  SON  IN 
AMERICA. 

ELLEN  FORRESTER. 

Mrs.  Ellen  Forrester,  the  authoress  of  this  poem,  which  is  effective 
from  its  extreme  simplicity  and  naturalness,  is  a  native  of  Monaghan, 
but  has  been  for  some  time  a  resident  of  Manchester,  England.  She 
has  published  two  volumes  of  poetry,  —  "Simple  Strains,"  and,  in 
conjunction  with  her  son,  Arthur  M.  Forrester,  "Songs  of  the  Rising 
Nation." 

"  REMEMBER,  Dennis,  all  I  bade  you  say, 

Tell  him  we  're  well  and  happy,  thank  the  Lord ! 

But  of  our  troubles  since  he  went  away, 

You  '11  inind,  avick,  and  never  say  a  word, — 

Of  cares  and  troubles  sure  we  've  all  our  share, 

The  finest  summer  is  n't  always  fair. 

"  Tell  him  the  spotted  heifer  calved  in  May,  — 

She  died,  poor  thing,  but  that  you  needn't  mind,  — 

Nor  how  the  constant  rain  destroyed  the  hay ; 
But  tell  him,  God  to  us  was  always  kind  : 

And  when  the  fever  spread  the  country  o'er, 

His  mercy  kept  the  sickness  from  the  door. 

"  Be  sure  you  tell  him  how  the  neighbors  came, 
And  cut  the  corn,  and  stored  it  in  the  barn ; 

'T  would  be  as  well  to  mention  them  by  name,  — 
Pat  Murphy,  Ned  McCabe,  and  James  McCarn, 

And  big  Tim  Daly  from  behind  the  hill,  — 

But  say,  agra  !  0,  say  I  missed  him  still ! 

"  They  came  with  ready  hands  our  toil  to  share,  — 
'Twas  then  I  missed  him  most,  my  own  right  hand ! 


442   THE  POETS  AND  POETEY  OF  IRELAND. 

I  felt,  although  kind  hearts  were  round  me  there, 

The  kindest  heart  beat  in  a  foreign  land. 
Strong  arm !  brave  heart !  0,  severed  far  from  me 
By  many  a  weary  mile  of  shore  and  sea ! 

"  You'll  tell  him  she  was  with  us,  (he'll  know  who,) 
Mavourneen  !  has  n't  she  the  winsome  eyes  3 

The  darkest,  deepest,  brightest,  bonniest  blue, 
That  ever  shone  except  in  summer  skies ; 

And  such  black  hair !  —  it  is  the  blackest  hair 

That  ever  rippled  o'er  a  neck  so  fair. 

"  Tell  him  old  Pincher  fretted  many  a  day,  — 
Ah,  poor  old  fellow,  he  had  like  to  die  !  — 

Crouched  by  the  roadside,  how  he  watched  the  way, 
And  sniffed  the  travellers  as  they  passed  him  by. 

Hail,  rain,  or  sunshine,  sure  't  was  all  the  same, 

He  listened  for  the  foot  that  never  came. 

"  Tell  him  the  house  is  lonesome-like  and  cold, 
The  fire  itself  seems  robbed  of  half  its  light : 

But  maybe  't  is  my  eyes  are  growing  old, 

And  things  grow  dim  before  my  failing  sight ; 

For  all  that,  tell  him  't  was  myself  that  spun 

The  shirts  you  bring,  and  stitched  them  every  one. 

"  Give  him  my  blessing  :  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
Tell  him  my  prayers  are  offered  for  his  good, 

That  he  may  keep  his  Maker  still  in  sight, 
And  firmly  stand  as  his  brave  fathers  stood, 

True  to  his  name,  his  country,  and  his  God, 

Faithful  at  home,  and  steadfast  still  abroad." 


MISCELLANEOUS.  443 

I'M  VERY  HAPPY  WHERE   I  AM. 
DION  BOUCICAULT. 

"Written  in  paraphrase  of  the  expression  of  an  Irish  peasant- woman  in 
her  cabin  in  Ohio.  . 

I  'M  very  happy  where  I  am, 

Far  across  the  say, 
I  'm  very  happy  far  from  home, 

In  North  Amerikay. 

It 's  only  in  the  night,  when  Pat 

Is  sleeping  by  my  side, 
I  lie  awake,  ,and  no  one  knows 

The  big  tears  that  I  've  cried. 

For  a  little  voice  still  calls  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  countrie ; 
And  nobody  can  hear  it  spake, 

0,  nobody  but  me  ! 

There  is  a  little  spot  of  ground 

Behind  the  chapel  wall ; 
It 's  nothing  but  a  tiny  mound, 

Without  a  stone  at  all ; 

It  rises  like  my  heart  just  now, 

It  makes  a  dawny  hill ; 
It 's  from  below  the  voice  comes  out, 

I  cannot  kape  it  still. 

0  little  voice !  ye  call  me  back 

To  my  far,  far  countrie, 
And  nobody  can  hear  you  spake, 

0,  nobody  but  me  ! 


444      THE   POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  IRELAND. 

THE  BANSHEE. 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE  day  was  declining, 

The  dark  night  drew  near, 
And  the  old  lord  grew  sadder, 

And  paler  with  fear. 
Come,  listen,  my  daughter, 

Come  nearer,  —  0,  near ! 
It 's  the  wind  on  the  water 

That  sighs  in  my  ear. 

Not  the  wind  nor  the  water 

Now  stirred  the  night  air, 
But  a  warning  far  sadder,  — 

The  banshee  was  there. 
Now*  rising,  now  swelling, 

On  the  night- wind  it  bore 
One  cadence,  still  telling, 

I  want  thee,  Rossmore  ! 

And  then  fast  came  his  breath, 

And  more  fixed  grew  his  eye, 
And  the  shadow  of  death 

Told  his  hour  was  nigh. 
In  the  dawn  of  that  morning 

The  struggle  was  'o'er ; 
For  when  thrice  came  the  warning, 

A  corpse  was  Rossmore. 


University  Press:  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


2lMay'53VH 

1953" 


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6Oct'63WW 
REC'D  LD 


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DEC  1 


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LD  21-100m-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


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